Rule Four
by Aurilia
Summary: When Tony's dad is in danger, the DiNozzo MOAS comes to the rescue. Rating for language.
1. The DiNozzo MOAS

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Ever since reading _The Sum of Your Memories _and _A Piece of Blue Sky_ (both by nat rulz here on FFN) several months ago, and more recently _Empathy _(by Kesterpan, also on FFN), I've been kicking around the idea for a supernatural!Tony story. Though all three of the aforementioned fics are Tony/Gibbs slash, this story is not going to be slash – hell, it's not even going to include romance in any way, shape, or form. It will contain cussing in at least two languages, though. On that note, I feel I ought to warn y'all that this chapter contains some extensive dialogue in Italian, and rather than put the translations of what was said at the end like I usually do, they'll be in parentheses along the way; see A/N2 for more info. This is set sometime after S8E7 'Broken Arrow', but contains no spoilers after that episode (I've yet to see anything from S9), but anything prior to that ep may be included and I've tweaked Tony's personal history a bit, which will be explained in the course of the story. And this story has nothing to do with any of my other NCIS fics.

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter One: The DiNozzo MOAS**

Tony shifted the latest pile of requisition forms aside and dug into his desk drawer for a candy bar. It was half an hour to quitting time, and lunch was but a fond memory. Ziva was looking through a cold case and McGee was down visiting with Abby while Gibbs was… Well, he could've been upstairs, bugging the director (or vice-versa), or out getting coffee, or simply lurking unseen, waiting for an opportunity to smack the back of Tony's head, though DiNozzo personally doubted it. Didn't matter – the lead agent wasn't in the squad room for the moment, and as a result, it was definitely snack time.

His questing fingers located a Hershey bar and he managed to extract it from a tangle of rubber bands and paperclips with a minimum of effort and a decisive "Yes!" of victory. Ziva glanced over long enough to determine it was nothing needing her attention before resuming examining the casefile in her hands. He just managed to strip the chocolate of its wrapper when his desk phone rang. Sighing a little, Tony picked up the receiver. "DiNozzo." Curious again, Ziva watched over the top of the file folder. "Uh-huh? It's not my dad again, is it?" His eyebrows inched towards the center of his forehead. "Send her up, I guess." He slowly hung up the phone and distractedly got up from his desk, his chocolate bar forgotten for the moment.

Ziva sat the file down on a pile of similar folders on the corner of her desk. "Tony?" She followed to where he now stood, looking out the windows. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," he replied, but before he could go into detail, the ding of the elevator captured his attention.

A security guard was escorting a petite brunette of roughly Tony's age, who was wearing a visitor's badge clipped to her denim jacket, which she wore over a plain white t-shirt and a floor-length green linen skirt. She was tense, frowning, and her silver-framed glasses had slipped down her nose. Tony brushed past Ziva, meeting the guard and visitor at the imaginary line around Team Gibbs area of the bullpen. "Thanks, Mark. I've got her from here," he said to the security guard, then pulled the woman into a hug. "Ciao e benvenuta, cugina," he said, then released her (Hello and welcome, cousin). "Now, tell me, cosa ci fai qui?" (…what are you doing here?)

A little of the woman's stiffness faded, though she still had a distinct air of 'worried'. "Hello to you, too, Tonio," her voice was low-pitched and tinged with a slight Sicilian accent. "Dobbiamo parlare." She glanced at Ziva (We need to talk). "Posso parlare qui? E' una questione di famiglia." (Can I talk here? It's a family thing.)

Tony pulled the woman a little closer to the windows and leveled a look at Ziva. Ziva got the hint and returned to her desk, but stared blankly at the file while keeping her ears open. Once she was seated, Tony nodded at the woman. "Sì, certo. Ziva sa un po' d'italiano. Di cosa hai bisogno?" (Yes, of course. Ziva knows little of Italian. What do you need?)

Ziva quirked an eyebrow at that. _I am more fluent in Italian than I am in English, Tony._ Instead of saying as much out loud, however, she continued to eavesdrop. The visitor relaxed a little more and managed a tight smile. "Ho bisogno del tuo aiuto," she said, reaching out to hold Tony's left hand in both of her own (I need your help).

Tony's expression switched from lightly confused and highly curious to somewhat apprehensive. "Il mio aiuto? Per che cosa?" (My help? For what?)

The woman looked up from their joined hands and suddenly Ziva could see the family resemblance. _She must be from Tony's father's side of the family. She's got the same blue eyes that DiNozzo Senior has and she shares a similar cast to her features as both Tonys._ "Tuo padre è nei guai," she said the words so quickly that Ziva had a little trouble figuring out what she'd said (Your father is in trouble).

Tony relaxed completely and let out a laugh. "Mio padre è sempre nei guai! E chi se ne frega?" (My father is always in trouble. Who gives a damn?)

The woman jerked her hands away from Tony's and hit him. "Vaffanculo! Tuo padre è nei guai e non  
t'interessa! Sei veramente uno stronzo!" (Go fuck yourself! Your father's in trouble, and you don't care! You really are an asshole!)

Tony winced, whether at the smack or at the words was anyone's guess, and grabbed the woman's wrists before she could hit him again. "Hey! Calm down, Gema! Let's try this again. Di che cosa stai parlando, mio padre è nei guai?" (What are you talking about, my father is in trouble?)

Gema wrenched her wrists free of Tony's hold and glared at him. "Un sogno, Tonio, e tu sai i miei sogni non mentono." (A dream, Tony, and you know my dreams don't lie.)

All hint of Tony's earlier humor evaporated in an instant. "Porco mondo, Gema, non ci credo  
più. Sono un agente federale, non posso fare nulla sulla base di un _sogno_. E tutto quello che hai un sogno, o hai qualcosa di più preciso?" (Damn it all, Gema, I don't follow that any longer. I am a federal agent, I can't do anything based on a _dream_. Is all you have a dream, or do you have something more definite?)

Gema shook her head and adjusted her glasses. "No, niente di più di quello che avevo quando avevo dieci anni e la zia Alice –" (No, nothing more than when I was ten and Aunt Alice –)

Tony paled drastically. "Merda. Hai visto mamma morire. Mi ricordo ora. Che cosa hai visto nel tuo sogno?" (Shit. You saw Mom die. I remember now. What did you see in your dream?)

Before the woman could reply, McGee arrived. He looked from Tony to Gema and back. "Hey, Tony…"

Tony glared at Tim. "Now is really _not_ a good time, McGoo. Go hack something."

Surprised by the venom in Tony's voice, Tim quickly backed away from the pair, coming to a halt at Ziva's desk. Seeing that Ziva had been paying attention to his conversation all along, Tony sent a glare in her direction, too, before returning the entirety of his concentration to his cousin. McGee crouched next to Ziva and whispered, "What's going on?"

"Shush, I am listening," Ziva whispered back.

The short exchange was enough that she missed part of the conversation. "…non mi importa se segui la vecchia religione. Sei ancora figlio di tuo padre, mio cugino, e ancora in possesso dei tuoi doni. Hai avuto sempre più talento di me. Non posso fare da sola " Gema seemed to be on the verge of tears. (I don't care if you follow the old religion. You are still your father's son, my cousin, and still possess your gifts. You have always been more talented than me. I can't do it alone.)

Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Non ho mai detto che hai fatto. Ora, dimmi, cosa hai visto?" (I never said you did. Now, tell me, what did you see?)

Gema echoed Tony's sigh, and it was even more apparent that the pair were blood-relations. "Non molto. Quanto basta per sapere che lo zio Tony è in pericolo. Ho visto un flash della casa di Napoleone all'Elba, poi tuo padre in un luogo buio, una pistola alla testa." (Not much. Just enough to know that Uncle Tony is in danger. I saw a flash of Napoleon's house on Elba, then your dad in a dark place, a gun to his head.)

Tony frowned. "Hai provato a chiamare papà?" (Have you tried to call Dad?)

Gema nodded. "Sì. Così ha fatto papà. Lui non risponde al telefono." (Yes. So did Dad. He's not answering his phone.)

Tony pulled Gema over to his desk and dialed his father's number from memory on his desk phone. "Damn it," he said, hanging up the receiver. "Voicemail," he explained to his cousin. He grabbed his cell, nearly knocking his computer monitor over in the process. Though someone who didn't know him might not notice, both Ziva and Tim could see that Tony was worried. His hands shook slightly as he thumbed down his contacts list before hitting 'send' for his dad's number.

Tony raised the phone to his ear, expecting voicemail again, but was awash in relief when he heard his dad answer, "Junior?"

"Dad –"

What he was going to say was interrupted by the distinctive sound of a fist hitting flesh. A faint, male voice said, "Give me that, old man."

The relief disappeared more quickly than it had surfaced. "Dad!"

"Shut up and listen, you asshole," the unidentified voice was now clear through the line. "It took you long enough to call. I guess some of us are just better sons than the rest, huh?"

"Who is this?"

"Who I am will become clear soon enough. Unless you want your father dead, you'll do exactly as I tell you."

Tony's knees gave out and he landed in a heap on the floor at Gema's feet; his teammates quickly hurried over while the visitor knelt next to her cousin. "Wha…?"

"You have forty-eight hours to do the following: First, you will drain the trust accounts left to you by your mother and grandparents into an account number which will be emailed to your cell phone. Second, you will obtain and use a one-way plane ticket to Rome, where you will call this number once again to arrange for a ride. Third and lastly, you will tell no one of this arrangement, unless you truly wish to attend your father's funeral." The man disconnected the call.

"Tony?" His name penetrated his mind in three-way stereo.

In reply, all he could do was look at Gema. "Avevi ragione." (You were right.)

Gema ignored the man and woman staring at her and Tony in confused concern and planted herself on the floor. It was a familiar invitation, issued and accepted a hundred million times over the years, begun during that first horrible summer after Aunt Alice had died. Unthinking, her Tonio accepted once again and laid his head in her lap. She combed her fingers through his hair, humming faintly. Slowly, the humming emerged as quiet song. "Ninna nanna, ninna oh," her singing voice was very obviously highly trained, even though it currently lacked in volume. "Questo figlio a chi lo do?" (Lullaby, lullabu. Who this child I'll bring to?)

Not for the first time, Tim found himself wishing that it wasn't just Gibbs and Abby who could communicate in ASL.

"Se lo do alla Befana, se lo tiene una settimana," Gema's right hand continued to card through Tony's hair while her left lightly traced the length of his nose. His eyes were closed and he was, to all appearances, quickly falling asleep, even as his pasty complexion began to regain some color. "Se lo do al lupo nero, se lo tiene un anno intero." (If I give him to the old witch, she will take him for a week. If I give him to the black wolf, he will take him for a whole year.)

Ziva tore her eyes away from the strange sight and looked around to see if Gibbs was anywhere near. Unfortunately, there was no sign of the man as yet.

"Non lo do a nessuno, e lo tengo sempre piu'," as she finished the old lullaby, Gema rested the palms of both her hands on either side of Tony's face. "Vai a dormire, Tonio. I'll wake you soon." She stripped her jacket off and carefully transferred the sleeping agent's head from her lap to the makeshift pillow. (I won't give him to anyone, and I'll take care of you my treasure. Go to sleep, Tony.)

"What is going on?" McGee whispered, not too sure himself if he was directing the comment at the stranger in their midst or at Ziva.

Gema stood and leveled a somewhat unsettling gaze at her cousin's teammates. "There is no need to whisper. He will not wake until I tell him to."

"That's nice," Tim said. "And who are you?"

Ziva answered, "She is Tony's cousin." To Gema, she added, "E io sono più fluente in italiano che Tony non lo sa." (And I am more fluent in Italian than Tony knows.)

One of Gema's eyebrows arched higher than the other. "Is that so?" She smirked at Tony's sleeping form and the family resemblance was stronger than ever. "He always was a little… _arrogant_, at times."

"That's nice," McGee repeated, rapidly getting frustrated. "Someone wanna read me in on this or should I go back downstairs and bring Abby up here?"

Ziva winced, knowing what Abby's reaction would be on seeing 'her poor Tony' out cold on the floor. "I do not believe that will be necessary, McGee." She returned Gema's unblinking gaze. "Perhaps you could explain what brought you here?"

Gema ran a hand through her short, pixie-cut hair, the gesture alike enough to when Tony did the same thing that both Ziva and Tim had an odd sense of dislocation. "I suppose so – I mean, Tonio's told me all about the people he works with. Calls you his 'family away from family'. I know he trusts you."

Gibbs' voice suddenly boomed out across the squad room, originating about halfway down the stairs. "Someone wanna tell me just why DiNozzo appears to be taking a nap?"

Gema looked over her shoulder and any remaining tension in her shoulders melted. "That would be my fault, Signore Gibbs."

Gibbs quickly rounded the end of the cubicle walls and halted next to his SFA's lightly-snoring form. "And you are…?"

"Gema DiNozzo. Tonio's papà and mine are brothers."

Gibbs ran a gaze over Gema from head to toe. "I can see that. Doesn't explain why he's sleeping on the clock."

"Uncle Tony is in danger," Gema explained. "I came here for Tonio's help to find him and get him back."

"From what I know of Tony's dad, I don't doubt he's in trouble," Gibbs scowled.

Fire flashed in Gema's dark blue eyes. "This isn't another dodgy investment or pissed-off ex-wife, you faccia di stronzo! This is _real_, life-or-death _danger_!" (son of a bitch)

Gibbs couldn't help but double-check the woman's hair – still brown – as her angry stance was nearly identical to Diane's just prior to when she came after him with the golf-club. He instinctively backed up a pace. "Hey, calm down. I meant no disrespect," she snorted and rolled her eyes while muttering what was, no doubt, something derogatory in Italian. Ziva and McGee exchanged an unbelieving look. "How do you know that Tony's dad's in trouble?"

Gema crossed her arms over her chest. "Because I saw it in a dream." At Gibbs' frankly skeptical expression, she continued. "Sleep and dreams are my talents," she gestured to the still-snoring agent on the floor. "But outside of that, I can't do much." She glanced from Gibbs to Ziva to Tim and back. All three wore similar skeptical expressions. Gema sighed. "Look, I know it sounds nuts. But it's true." A slow smile crept into her face, dousing the angry fire in her eyes and morphing it into the mischievous twinkle that so often heralded a need for acetone when seen in Tony's eyes. She readjusted her glasses and held her hand out to McGee. "Tim, right?"

McGee nodded and stepped forward to take her hand. "Yeah."

Gema clasped his hand and even as he was saying 'pleased to meet you', she reached up with her other hand and stroked a finger down his nose. "Vai a dormire." At the conclusion of the gesture, Tim's eyes rolled up and he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. "Do you see?" she asked the other two. (Go to sleep.)

"What did you do to my agent?" Gibbs hissed. He could feel a headache building.

"Just told him to go to sleep," Gema replied. She leaned down and ran her fingers up Tim's nose. "Sveglia." (Wake up.)

Tim's eyes snapped open. "What the –"

"You alright?" Gibbs interrupted.

McGee nodded. "Yeah, I think so. What happened?"

Unable to answer, Gibbs looked to their visitor while helping Tim back to his feet.

Gema glanced down at her cousin. "I think I'll let him sleep for now – he never was the best at explaining this." She redirected her gaze back to Gibbs. "Is there someplace we can speak privately? And will anyone care if we leave Tonio here?"

Gibbs shook his head, "No one will think twice about Tony. It's not the first time he's caught a nap in the bullpen." He then herded the rest of his team and the visitor to a conference room. Once everyone was seated, he glanced from Tim to Gema. "Explain."

Gema took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay. Like I said downstairs, I'm Tonio's cousin – his only cousin on the DiNozzo side. And we DiNozzos have a bit more in common than just the family nose," she grinned. "We all have talents – even Tonio." She held up a hand to forestall questions. "I'm getting to that, just give me a minute. Like I showed you, I can control sleep. This extends to dreams. I get… flashes or warnings when I sleep, I always have. Night before last, I dreamt about Uncle Tony. It wasn't anything specific, just a lot of memories I have of him, overlaid with a sense of urgency. Then last night, I got something a bit more specific. I got a locator-flash – a quick scene that tells me _where_ I'm seeing – of Napoleon's house on Elba Island. It was immediately followed by seeing Uncle Tony, tied to a chair in a dark room, with a shadow holding a gun to his head."

"You told as much to Tony," Ziva mentioned.

Gema sighed. "Yes. I did. But what I _didn't _tell him was the scene that followed. After the flash with the Bad Man, I saw Tonio as the roots of a tree." She let out a little huff of self-depreciative laughter. "Sometimes what I see isn't literal. What this tells me is that whatever trouble Uncle Tony is in, it has to do with Tonio."

"Did you try to get a hold of your uncle?" Tim asked.

Gema nodded. "Yes. I tried calling, but I wasn't sure if Uncle Tony had my phone number or not – he won't answer the phone if he doesn't recognize the number. But when I didn't have any luck, I went to papà. Papà couldn't reach him, either."

"So your uncle doesn't have his brother's number, either?"

Gema shook her head. "That's not what I meant. Papà and Uncle Tony don't need technology to get in touch – they're identical twins, they've always been able to speak mind-to-mind. The only time they can't reach each other is if it's a distance-thing, and I don't mean simply being a state or two away. They have to be separated by several thousand miles before their talent is muted so much they can't hear each other."

The three agents in the room traded looks. Gema scowled. "Hey, I don't care if you believe me or not. It's true."

"Didn't say I don't believe you," Gibbs said. "Just…"

"It's a lot to take in," Tim supplied.

Though she could tell that McGee and Gibbs both were having difficulty accepting what Gema was saying, Ziva had no such trouble. She'd heard rumors at Mossad about a black-ops specialist team who were supposed to have assorted psychic abilities. She had no problem with the existence of such abilities; no, what was bothering her was that she couldn't imagine Tony, of all people, as having any such ability. Sure, he had a knack for making people underestimate him and for pissing people off, but those weren't psychic in nature. "What can Tony do?" she found herself asking.

"His skills are a lot more useful than mine," Gema replied. "I mean, there isn't much call for someone who can literally _make_ you go to sleep. Just about the only thing I use it for is making sure I have peaceful trips on planes and trains." Ziva was about to argue – she could imagine a hundred ways such a talent would have come in useful, but held her tongue. She'd speak with Gema about it in more detail later. "Anyway, Tonio can… Well, it's called retrocognition or post-cognition. He can see the past, if he wants to. He rarely uses it, considers it 'cheating'," she used air-quotes around the word. "I think it's just because his mamma was Catholic – some of the useless guilt that faith rams down its members' throats must have rubbed off when Tonio was little." She smiled at a memory, but didn't elaborate. "Anyway, Tonio, if he puts in the effort, can also scry current events. And if he knows the location of what he's looking for, he can call it to him – that one's called apportation – but it only works if he knows where the item he needs is located."

Suddenly, the object of their conversation poked his head into the room. "My ears are burning," Tony said as he entered the conference room. He handed Gema her jacket and sat next to her at the oblong table.

"You must have slept well last night," Gema replied, slipping into her jacket. "You almost never wake before I tell you to."

Tony nodded, "Yeah, like a baby. Don't think it's gonna be quite so good tonight, though." He glanced around at his teammates. "I take it she told you?"

Three nearly-identical nods confirmed his statement. The look on Gibbs' face promised that there would be a highly-uncomfortable conversation sometime in the near future, but Ziva simply looked appraising, and Probie had reverted somewhat. Tony frowned, no doubt the geek was picturing some sort of comic book hero by now.

Ziva broke the silence. "So this is why you get so stubborn about some of our cases."

Tony couldn't help himself – he snapped, "If I used it at work, Zee-vah, do you really think we'd have unsolved cold cases to go through? Or that Renny Grant would have done three years in prison for something he _didn't do?_"

Gema laid a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Hush, Tonio – it's not her fault."

Tony glared at his cousin. "It's _cheating_ and I won't do it."

"Is it cheating to use your eyes?" The team could tell this was an old, old argument between the pair.

"That's different," Tony replied.

"No, it isn't and you know it."

Tony sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "This is getting us nowhere. Dad's in trouble. Let's deal with that first." He locked eyes with Gibbs. "When Gema told me about it, I tried to call him. I tried my desk phone first, but I only got voicemail. He answered when I tried my cell. He's… I don't know if he's _okay_, but he's alive for now. Someone's got him – I don't know who, but the voice is vaguely familiar, and no, I can't place it. He – the bad guy – has given me forty-eight hours to drain my trust accounts that Nonna and Mom left me, and to get myself to Rome via one-way ticket. Said he'd text me the account number to transfer my money to." He took his cell from his pocket. "Hasn't come in yet."

Gibbs glanced at his watch. "McGee –"

Tim sprang to his feet. "Get on tracing Tony's dad's cell," he said hurrying out of the room.

"Ziva –"

"Running down the usual suspects," she hurried after McGee.

Gibbs stood. "You go help Ziva – let her know if you're aware of anyone she's looking into having a connection to Tony or his dad outside of what we already know."

Gema smiled at his order but could see the sense in it. She didn't argue, simply kissed Tony's cheek and hurried after Ziva.

"Tony, you're with me."

"Kinda figured, Boss," Tony slowly pried himself out of the relative comfort of the chair. "Coffee and dinner for the team, I know. And probably a lot more talking than usual."

Gibbs didn't deny it.

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**A/N2:** All of the Italian contained herein comes courtesy of the Italian cussing dictionary on about (dot) com and through wordmonkey; the lullaby came from a site called lullabiesofeurope (dot) wetpaint (dot) com. If anyone out there sees a better way for me to convey what I've said in the Italian bits, please please _please_ let me know and I'll fix it (and credit you). Thanks in advance!

**Edit 04/02/2012: ** So far, I've gotten a couple of fixes from trekde (whose profile indicates Italy as a point-of-origin). Thanks for that! Hopefully, if anything else needs polished, folks will speak up. I don't speak Italian and have never studied it and I _hate_ relying on the interwebz to translate for me. Apparently, though, the cussing was all correct - go figure.

**Edit 04/14/2012:** Located and assassinated a typo.


	2. Aspirin and Chocolate

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Rule seventeen, according to online resources, has not yet been used in the show, so I've added it myself. Feel free to take it and make it your own.

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter Two: Aspirin and Chocolate**

The sunset over the Potomac was particularly lovely, though Tony wasn't really looking at it. He walked a step ahead of Gibbs – something which would have previously been unthinkable – lost in memories of the three years he spent primarily with Gema and Uncle Vinnie and Aunt Fran. Without meaning to, he halted next to a bench in the little park that overlooked the river. "Mi legano a me questo giorno la rapidità del vento, la forza del mare, la durezza delle rocce, la resistenza della terra," his voice was barely perceptible, but he knew Gibbs heard him. "That's what I grew up with, when Mom wasn't teaching me the Lord's Prayer. 'I bind to myself this day the swiftness of the wind, the power of the sea, the hardness of the rocks, the endurance of the earth.'" He translated, then sank onto the bench. "Nonna didn't approve of Mom, neither did Uncle Vinnie – Gema's dad. That was okay, though. Mom's family didn't approve of the DiNozzos, either. Pro'ly why Uncle Clive left all his millions to Crispian."

Tony fell silent again, staring at the reflections on the river. "Mom's response to finding out she married into a family of freaks was to ignore it. I remember when I was, oh, five or so. I came home from school, angry because one of the kids in second grade had stolen my lunch, but even though I'd _seen_ it, I hadn't seen it, and the teacher didn't believe me. I remember telling Mom about it, but do you know what her response was? 'Anthony,' she said. 'Anthony, you know better than to accuse someone of being bad like that!' She completely ignored what I'd said about having seen it – because it had happened when we were out for recess and I didn't see it until we got back inside. It confused the hell out of me, but Nonna and Gema came over that weekend and explained that not everyone could _see_ like I could. Mom must've overheard at least part of what we were talking about, because I got a lecture after they went home. I don't really remember all of it, but the sentiment got repeated more often than I care to recall. That since these abilities I wound up with weren't commonplace, they were unnatural. That I should never, ever use them. That I shouldn't talk about them, or even _think_ about them."

Tony fumbled for his cell, checked that there were still no messages, and returned it to his pocket. "Of course, all those lectures went away when Mom wrapped her car around a tree the summer I turned eight. I spent the rest of that summer with Nonna and Gema, wound up spending most of three years with Uncle Vinnie's family. They tried to un-teach what Mom had hammered into my head, but…" Tony sighed. "I know, looking back on it, Mom had been demanding and unreasonable, but she was probably scared out of her mind. Here she was, a completely normal person, and suddenly she finds out she's married into a bunch of freaks. I'm pretty sure that she could have lived with it, had it just been the psychic crap. I mean, none of it's really showy, not since Nonna died – Nonna was pyrokenetic, she controlled fire – so I'm pretty sure she could have ignored it. But no, my family can't just be normal freaks, if there is such a thing. No, they have to go all out on the freak-o-meter." He scrubbed a hand across his face. "Gema wound up having to spend three afternoons a week at a shrink when she was nine, simply because she'd asked the teacher who Jesus was. That definitely didn't go over well at the private school she'd gone to. It might not have been an official Catholic school, but most of the students and I'm pretty sure _all_ of the teachers were."

Gibbs took a seat next to his SFA. Tony finally glanced at him and let a small smile surface on his face. "You know, one of the only times I ever got my ass beat as a kid was all Nonna's fault. She'd been telling me some of the ancient stories of La Vecchia Religione, and like the dumb kid I was, when Mom asked what we did at Nonna's, I told her the same stories."

"What stories?" Gibbs asked when further explanation halted.

Tony looked back over the river. "A long, long time ago, before there were any people, before there was water and land, there was Absence and Chaos. As the only beings, they soon tired of their own company and decided to create something new. They destroyed themselves in the effort, but managed to create Terra and Caelus – Mother Earth and Father Sky. They soon had three children, Uragano, Vulcano, and Terremoto – Hurricane, Volcano, and Earthquake. They were huge creatures with fifty heads and a hundred hands, and it was they that gave rise to the oceans and mountains. Terra and Caelus then had three more children, Cyclops, and seven more children, who became known as the Titans. Of all his children, Caelus despised Urgano, Vulcano, and Terremoto the most. To keep them out of his sight, he imprisoned them under the world. Terra became angry at Caelus' treatment of their children and begged the Cyclops and Titans for help. Of them all, only Saturn stood up to their father. In a battle that threatened to split the whole universe apart, Saturn managed to destroy Caelus, spreading pieces of his body all across the heavens."

"Heard he did it with a sickle," Gibbs said, managing to surprise Tony.

Tony shrugged, "Depends on the version you studied. In the version Nonna told me, that her Nonna told her, he did it with his bare hands."

"This the story that got your butt blistered?"

Tony shook his head, "No. The one that Mom took offense to was Aradia's. You seem to know your Roman mythology, so I'll fast-forward a bit. Saturn and his sister Opis created Ceres, Jupiter, Veritas, Pluto, Juno, and so forth. Jupiter and Latona had Diana. Diana wasn't Venus, wasn't the planet, I mean. Originally, before the Greeks confused the issue, Diana was a goddess in her own right. The planet we call Venus today is named after the goddess the Greeks called Aphrodite. Venus didn't happen until Rome had conquered and incorporated Grecian beliefs. Anyway, back to why Mom had a problem of the story of Aradia and Diana… Well, it all boils down to the fact that the ancients used to think there were two 'stars'; the morning star and the evening star. Diana was the evening star, she ruled over what Nonna called 'women's issues' – you'll need to ask Gema exactly what she meant, because neither one ever told _me_ – and a few minor things like hunting, and was the main force that eased death. She didn't control death, that was up to the fates, what she did – or her helpers, it varies from one story to another – was help souls make the transition from being dead-but-still-here to whatever their fate was in the afterlife."

Seeing the 'get on with it' glare Gibbs was leveling in his direction, Tony sighed. "Her husband was the morning star. And yes, he was called Lucifer – some damn idiot in the third century made a dumbass mistake and ever since, that name's been applied in Christianity to mean 'Satan'." Tony rolled his eyes. "I didn't learn it until I was working in Philly, but did you know that the only time the word Lucifer is used in the Bible is some obscure little passage referring to the king of Babylon? Sometimes I wish I could control time and go back and thwack Milton upside the head – with a hardback illustrated copy of his own damn book – for perpetuating misinformation. Anyway, Diana and Lucifer. Lucifer's job among the gods was basically as Phoebus' stable-hand. He made it so Phoebus could carry the sun across the sky – hence why his name means 'light bringer'." Tony suddenly flinched. "You think I can get away with not explaining any of this to Probie? I mean, 'cause his brain might just suffer a permanent meltdown if he hears me using words like 'perpetuating' and 'hence'."

The smack to the back of his head wasn't entirely unexpected.

"Um, yeah. Anyway, Diana and Lucifer only had one child, Aradia. By this time, the world was running pretty smoothly and none of the other gods really wanted to share their powers. Aradia wasn't too interested in becoming one of their minions, either, so she high-tailed it down dirtside and found that, from humanity's point of view, things weren't all that great. So she went back and studied healing under Phoebus, and learned smithing from Vulcan, and so on. Once she'd learned all she could, she returned to Earth. She met a Titan who'd managed to evade Jupiter's radar by mainly keeping to himself and laying low on his own little island – guy by the name of Prometheus. She convinced him to come with her and see how bad off the humans were. He felt sorry for them and helped Aradia to steal fire for their use – of course, Prometheus got caught, and wound up spending the rest of eternity with an eagle munching on his liver. Anyway, Aradia went back to the people, gave them fire, and taught them everything she'd learned from her studies with the gods. Eventually, she fell for a human and their children were the first psychics." Tony took a breath. "But it was the whole Lucifer part of it that had Mom so angry." He let out a little laugh. "You know, I could probably write a thesis on Roman mythology, just based off of what I heard as a kid. I didn't realize I remembered so much of it still."

Gibbs shrugged, "I still remember the state capitals in alphabetical order from a test I took when I was in second grade. Stuff you learn as a kid sticks with you."

After another long silence, Tony finally wrenched his gaze from the river and really looked at his boss. "You aren't pissed at me?"

"For what?"

"Not telling you about… well… all of this?"

"What you believe in isn't anyone's business but your own, DiNozzo, and the rest of it… Well, I'll admit that I don't think it's quite sunk in yet."

Tony echoed Gibbs' earlier shrug. "It will. If Gema's here, I'm not going to get away with _not_ using the psychic crap… She may not look it, but I wouldn't wager against her, no matter her opponent – even if it was _you_." He sighed for what felt like the umpteenth time that evening. "Guess I should get back in the habit, huh?"

Gibbs watched as Tony closed his eyes, a frown of concentration firmly in place. His second was muttering something under his breath, but he couldn't quite make out the words. After several long minutes, Tony reached out with both hands and made a pulling motion. An unwrapped chocolate bar appeared in one hand, and the bottle of aspirin Tony kept in his desk appeared in the other. Gibbs was very grateful he wasn't standing, but was extremely careful not to let his shock show on his face. "That the appor-whatever?"

Tony nodded, his eyes still closed. "Apportation. Yeah." He broke the chocolate bar in half, handed one piece to Gibbs, and wolfed down the other. He chased it with six aspirin. "Not without cost – that's something Nonna always made sure we understood. The abilities aren't without cost, and the cost's higher if they haven't been used in a long time. Gema uses hers all the time, so it's normal for her. Stick around her a while and you'll see she eats more than I do. I'm so out-of-practice, this is gonna be like running a marathon on a broken leg." Tony finally opened his eyes, and Gibbs could see the left one was bloodshot.

"That normal?"

"What is it this time?"

"Your eye looks like it's gonna start bleeding all over the place."

Tony shrugged again. "That's new. Usually, I wind up with nosebleeds." He climbed to his feet. "So… Pizza or Chinese?"

"Don't care, DiNozzo," Gibbs replied. He allowed Tony to return to his place a pace ahead of him and desperately tried to wedge what Tony had termed 'the psychic crap' into a place where it made sense.

* * *

The trace on Anthony D. DiNozzo, Senior's cell phone didn't take long to complete. It was currently showing as being somewhere within a three-block radius of Portoferraio, Isola d'Elba, Italy. Just to be thorough, Tim also worked backwards to find out how Senior had managed to arrive on the island. Three days after returning home once the missing nuclear weapon case was closed, customs records showed that he'd hitched a ride with the owner of a Moroccan casino from JFK airport to Milan, and from there he and the casino owner headed to Pisa, but there wasn't anything in the official data that showed how or with whom he arrived on Elba. Tim also checked into Senior's financials again and found the same thing he'd found before – on a personal level, Senior was broke, though his business was running smoothly as ever.

That had really thrown him the first time he'd researched the topic – it was something Tim had taken far too long to acknowledge: There was actually a businessman in existence that was _honest_, at least when it came to business-vs.-personal funds. As an individual, Senior was completely broke, but DiNozzo Enterprises, LTD. was _thriving_… Hell, they were one of the few large brokerage firms in the whole of New York that weren't just skating by during the recession, they had actually _expanded_ while most others were having to be bailed out by the government or had simply gone belly-up. It still gave Tim cause to pause, even now. He hoped that, at some point, he could actually sit and have a conversation with Senior, find out just why his business was so well-run when it seemed like he couldn't manage his own checkbook.

Across the bullpen, Ziva was slowly working her way down the list of Tony's 'usual suspects', with what little aid Gema had to offer. Done with his own work for now, McGee joined them. "Who are we up to?" he asked.

"We have already ruled out everyone," Ziva replied. "None of them are in Italy right now or have been there in the past few months." She handed Tim the list of names.

Tim sighed and scanned the rather familiar list of names. "So, it might be someone who's not connected to Tony, just to his dad." His eyes halted on one name that had been crossed out. "Why's this one crossed off?" he asked, indicating the name in question.

"Mike Macaluso was killed six months ago during a fight at Cumberland Correctional," Ziva explained.

"Oh," Tim replied, then sighed again. He handed the list back to her. "I'm not doing much better. Tony's dad's been in Italy for two days – customs has him entering via Milan, then flight records show him jumping to Pisa." He turned his attention to Tony's cousin. "Do you know why he went to Italy?"

Gema slowly shook her head. "No, not really. If he'd gone to Palermo, I'd say he's visiting family, or if he'd stayed in Milan, I'd assume he was on vacation. But, as far as I know, there isn't anyone or anything he'd want in Pisa. Papà might know. Do you want me to call him?"

Ziva and Tim exchanged a look that could have been an entire conversation in its own right. Simultaneously, they said, "Do it."

Gema retrieved her cell from her pocket and dialed. Before long, she was speaking rapid-fire Italian that even Ziva had trouble following. After only a minute or two, she disconnected the call and returned the phone to its place in her jacket. "Papà doesn't know why Uncle Tony would have gone to Pisa, but he's on his way down. Mamma is staying to mind the store."

"Store?" Ziva asked.

Gema nodded. "The butcher shop Papà owns."

The sound of the elevator interrupted any further conversation. Gibbs arrived, carrying two large cups of coffee, Tony trailing in his wake, balancing four large pizza boxes under two drink carriers from Starbucks. Gibbs sat one of his coffees at his desk, then asked, "What do we got?"

While McGee and Ziva were summarizing their findings, Tony handed out the drinks. "Venti, black, sugar – McGoo. Venti chai with honey – Ziva. Double-venti white chocolate caramel macchiato with triple-shots of espresso – Gema," his cousin was handed the drink carrier that contained two large glasses. He sat his own drink on his desk. Of the four pizza boxes, Tony handed two to his cousin before opening one of the other two and helping himself to a slice.

"So basically, we've got nothing," Gibbs growled, turning to face Tony.

Tony quickly swallowed his bite of pizza. "I wouldn't call it _nothing_… Just not much of use right now. Who was he traveling with, McGee?"

Tim double-checked his research, "A Samir Alami, owner of a casino resort in Rabat, Morocco."

Gema and Tony groaned. "Uncle Salami," they managed it in stereo. Tony explained, "He grew up with Dad and Uncle Vinnie. Likes practical jokes and tends to run after anything in a skirt." Tony didn't seem to realize he was describing his 'uncle' in such a way that it could have applied to himself, too.

"Oh, dear lord – there are _four_ of them?" Tim couldn't keep from voicing the thought aloud. At Ziva and Gibbs' expressions, Tim continued with, "Like you weren't thinking it too! I mean, we _know _Tony. We met his dad – who might as well _be_ Tony in thirty years – then we find out he's got an identical twin, and now this 'Uncle Salami' character? If I was writing this, my publisher would beat me to death with a paperweight!"

Tim grunted as a particularly sharp elbow hit his solar plexus. "Grazie, Gema. It's not a headslap, but it'll do." Tony grinned at his cousin. (Thanks, Gema.)

"Prego. Il piacere è tutto mio," she replied. (You're welcome. The pleasure was all mine.) She maneuvered around Tim, her pizza and coffees balanced on the flat of her right hand like an expert waitress and stood next to Gibbs.

"Still don't know why they went to Pisa, though," Tony sighed and grabbed another slice of pizza.

Ziva just then noticed the blood obscuring most of the white of Tony's left eye. "What happened to your eye, Tony?"

"It doesn't look that bad, does it?" He picked a CD up off a cluttered stack of whatnot on the corner of his desk. He grimaced at his reflection. "No, it's worse than I thought. At least the headache's faded some." He returned the CD to his desk, exchanging it for his coffee.

"What happened?" Ziva repeated.

Tony glanced over to where his cousin was talking to Gibbs about something and shrugged. "Just did something stupid is all."

"Do I need to sharpen my credit card?"

Sighing, Tony rolled his eyes. "You know, one of these days, the threats aren't going to work anymore."

"Tony, just answer her," Tim piped up, having finally regained his breath.

Deciding that, for once, giving up was the better part of valor, Tony shook his head. "I apported my Hershey bar and a bottle of aspirin earlier. It's been years since I did anything like it, and my brain's not real happy about it. Happy now?"

"You did _what_?" McGee asked.

"I called my aspirin and chocolate to me, from my desk to that park bench that overlooks the Potomac," Tony explained, his voice taking on a tone one would normally use when trying to explain a complicated concept to a small child.

"And it did… _that_ to your eye?" Ziva reached up as though to touch the injury.

Tony ducked back a little. "Apparently. It's been a long, long time, Ziva. Nothing is free, though always before it just gave me nosebleeds."

"Why would it do that?" The expression of confusion on McGee's face would have been comical under other circumstances.

"_Because_, Probie, _nothing is free_. Look at it this way, if you want a Nutter Butter from the vending machine, you have to get up, walk there, insert your money, and hope the vending machine's feeling generous. You pay for the energy you use getting there, you pay the money for the cookies, and so on. Now, if I apported a Nutter Butter from the machine, I'd still have to pay – not necessarily the money part, but the energy. And since you get up and walk around every day, you're used to paying that minor cost of energy, but I haven't apported anything in _years_, so it's more like trying to use an arm after having the cast removed."

Recalling the six months of physical therapy he'd endured following his car accident when he was sixteen, the explanation actually made more sense to Tim than it might have otherwise. "So, your ability atrophied?"

Unaware that Gema had been giving Gibbs a similar rundown on how their gifts worked, Tony tore another chunk of pizza off the slice he held. His words somewhat muffled by the food, he said, "Well, not really atrophied. More like never really used." He washed the bite down with a drink of his coffee. "I guess it's more like one of those skinny little dorks that always got picked on in PE trying to bench-press the quarterback."

By now, Tim had long gotten used to the way Tony's mind worked, so he didn't automatically assume the statement was an insult. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Ziva beat him to it. "Why do you not use these abilities?"

Tony wolfed down the remainder of his pizza slice. By the time he'd finished, Gema and Gibbs had joined the rest of the team. Tony noticed, but directed his reply to Tim and Ziva, "Because they're _cheating_. It's not fair to everyone else. Besides, if we solved a case because I _saw_ something, how the hell would we report it? The last thing we need are a bunch of black hats going free because the paperwork's screwy."

Gibbs finally added something to the conversation. "Rule seventeen, DiNozzo. And you let me worry about the paperwork." He brushed past the team and headed up the stairs towards the director's office.

"Rule seventeen?" Tim wracked his brain, trying to figure out if it was one he should already know.

"The only unfair advantage is the one you don't hold," Tony recited, staring after his boss.

* * *

**A/N2:** Could someone please tell me why I have the distinct memory of Tony saying something about Palermo? What episode was it in? What did he actually say? It's been driving me nuts!

Reviews are love!

**Edit 06/05/2012:** Located and assassinated a typo.


	3. Progress

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Here's a new chapter – hope it satisfies! Happy reading.

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter Three: Progress**

Gibbs ignored the PA-of-the-week – ever since Cynthia married and moved to Miami two months ago, Vance had gone through _nine_ replacements – and strode into the director's office.

Vance looked up from the paperwork he was finishing and groaned internally. He'd been looking forward to heading home on time for a change. "Gibbs. To what do I owe the rather dubious pleasure?" He gestured to the seat facing his desk.

Gibbs ignored the seat and stated, "We've got a problem, Leon."

"I figured that part out by how the door bounced off the wall," Vance dryly replied. "What is it this time?"

"DiNozzo's father's been kidnapped. From what McGee has been able to track so far, he's in Italy, on Elba Island."

Vance's earlier inner groan was given voice. He retrieved a cinnamon-flavored toothpick from the little dish under his computer monitor and unwrapped it. "I really hope this isn't the start of a new trend," he muttered.

"What?"

The director met Gibbs eyes. "I imagine you came up here so I could run interference with the FBI while your team takes care of this, right?"

"Yeah, that was the plan. It's only a matter of time before they catch wind that the CEO of a major corporation has gone missing."

Vance released his 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' smirk. "That won't be necessary." At Gibbs' 'explain now' glare, Vance continued, "After his usefulness in closing the Iverson case – not to mention the bills he racked up at the Adams House – I had him put on retainer as a consultant; it was the only way I could get SecNav to sign off on the money he spent."

That managed to startle a snort of amusement out of Gibbs. "Somehow, I don't think Tony's going to like that too much."

Vance's smirk brightened. "Consider it need-to-know and he doesn't."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Gibbs' mouth. "You want to tell him yourself. Just let me be there when you do, Leon."

Vance shook his head, "Nope. Was Senior's idea. I'm humoring him for the time-being." He took a breath and held it for a moment. "What details do you have? Any idea who took him?"

Gibbs gave a quick summary of what they had so far, leaving out the revelations of the previously-unknown talents Tony and his cousin possessed. When he finished, Vance removed the toothpick from the corner of his mouth. "Keep me apprised. I'll make sure dispatch knows you're off rotation until this is resolved."

Gibbs turned to leave, but Vance stopped him. "If DiNozzo starts having problems with this, Gibbs, bench him."

The lead agent paused by the door, gave Vance a look that easily translated to 'no one tells me how to run my team', and then left with much less fanfare than he'd entered with. Vance stared at the door for several long minutes, a headache rapidly building behind his eyes, before giving in to the urge to slump down and bang his head on his desk repeatedly.

* * *

Moments after Gibbs had disappeared from the bullpen, Tony's cell chirped to indicate an incoming email/text. The noise succeeded in startling him, but he covered the surprise by scrambling to remove it from his pocket. It was the promised bank account number. Tony tossed his cell to McGee, who caught it one-handed. His thoughts racing after one another in an ever-tightening spiral, Tony sat at his desk and buried his head in his hands.

With renewed purpose, Tim headed for his computer with Tony's cell, and got to work tracing the number.

Ziva silently studied her partner. Tony's lack of his normal sense of humor had not gone unnoticed, and it was beginning to worry her. _Tony seems… brittle, almost as though he will shatter if pushed too hard right now._ The ringing of her desk phone interrupted her thoughts. She answered it, and saw Tony spring to his feet and rush off, Gema following close behind.

Unbeknownst to either woman, Gema's thoughts were running along parallel tracks to Ziva's. When Tony fled his desk, she hurried after him. They wound up in the break room, Tony staring into the vending machine as though it held the answers to life. Gema slipped beside him and laid a hand on his arm. "Tonio, parlare con me. Che cosa sta succedendo dentro la tua testa in questo momento?" (Tony, speak to me. What's going on inside your head right now?)

Tony wrenched his gaze to meet his cousin's. "Sei sicuro che vuoi davvero sapere?" (Are you sure you really want to know?)

"Would I have asked if I didn't?" Gema tugged him over to a table and got him to sit down. "Parlare con me, per favore." (Speak to me, please.)

Tony rubbed lightly at his temples, grateful for the aspirin he'd taken earlier, as he was certain his brain would have felt like it was melting otherwise. As it stood, he still had a bit of a headache, but it wasn't bad enough to interfere with his thinking. "Am I a bad son?"

Gema blinked in surprise. The question had seemingly come right out of left field. "No! Mai!" she put all the conviction she had from a lifetime of knowing Tony into the two words. (No! Never!) "Why would you even ask that, Tonio?"

"Perché sembra che non importa quello che faccio in questo momento," Tony looked down at the tabletop, letting his hands fall to it's surface, "o io deludere mamma o i deludere papà." (Because it seems that no matter what I do right now, I disappoint Mom or I disappoint Dad.) Someone Tony vaguely remembered as working the Middle-East desk strode past the door, and Tony's eyes followed the movement until the man was out of sight. "Penso che ho già deluso Gibbs," was said, in nearly a whisper, to a point somewhere above and behind Gema's right ear. (I think I already disappointed Gibbs.) He reached up to rub his temples again.

"Perché?" Gema reached up and took Tony's hands in her own. (Why?) "Perché tu non gli raccontano la merda psichica? Noi non lo dicono agli esterni su di esso per una ragione, sai. If I could have helped your dad without mentioning it, you know I wouldn't have said anything." (Because you didn't tell him about the psychic crap? We don't tell outsiders about it for a reason, you know.)

"Yeah," Tony nodded. "I know. But… All my life, I've felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war between what Mom wanted for me and what the rest of my family wanted. And then, just now, with Gibbs reminding me of rule seventeen…"

Gema was about to get into their old argument about how Tony couldn't possibly disappoint his mom, particularly since the woman was long dead, when she suddenly realized that Tony was on the verge of actually coming to terms with his talents. _What is it about his boss that makes it so just one sentence from him can do what a lifetime of talking from me and Mamma and __Papà and Nonna couldn't?_ A phone conversation from nearly ten years earlier flashed across her mind; Tony hadn't been able to come to Long Island for Thanksgiving, so she'd called him. It had been shortly after he hired on with NCIS, and they'd gotten to talking about his new coworkers. _Didn't Tonio mention something about his boss having a rule, something to the effect of not squandering talent or some such?_

"How about you?" Tony asked, noticing the little vertical line that appeared between Gema's eyebrows when she was thinking hard about something. "What's on your mind?"

"You've told me your boss has a whole list of rules, even told me what some of them are over the years," Gema said, still trying to get her brain to pull up the exact wording.

"Yeah. What about it?"

"The first one you told me about – it was over the phone, the first Thanksgiving you worked here. You were telling me about how you got hired. Do you remember?"

Tony started to shake his head, but stopped. "Uh… I think so." He didn't recall the conversation, but he could still feel the sting of that first head-slap, even after all these years.

"What rule was it? The one that got you hired, I mean."

A tiny smile, tinged with nostalgia, surfaced on Tony's face. "Rule five – you don't waste good."

_I owe that man a kiss,_ Gema thought, tamping down the urge to do a celebratory victory dance. Instead, she remained sitting, forcing herself not to grin. "Ah, yes. That's it. Thanks." She squeezed Tony's hands one last time and went to stand.

"Hey!" Tony tightened his grip and pulled her back into her seat. "You think you might wanna explain?"

Gema resettled herself on the hard plastic chair. "You're _good_, Tonio. Even without using your gifts all the time, you manage to get it right on the first try, _every time_. Do you have any idea how _rare_ that is?"

Tony scoffed. "You're just as good, Gema. And you can actually use yours without needing heavy-duty painkillers."

"Only because I worked at it, Tonio. The only difference between us is I practice every damn day to control something that comes _naturally_ to you. Not even Nonna got it right as often as you do – remember the incident with the barbecue before we left for Palermo?"

Tony chuckled. "Sure do. That fireball is branded in my memory – and it took Uncle Vinnie, what? Six months? To regrow his eyebrows."

Gema echoed Tony's laugh, and had anyone else been there, they would have seen yet another strong family resemblance. "Yeah. But the point is that you _never_ missed your target like that, Tonio, not even when we were kids."

"You don't, either."

Gema shook her head. "Do too. Did just today, with you. You woke on your own, and I'd used the strongest application of sleep I have – _Ninna Oh_. You should still be sleeping." With that, Gema extracted her hands from her cousin's grasp and headed back to his teammates.

Tony stared after her, new thoughts derailing the old trains about letting down his mom. _You don't waste good. The only unfair advantage is the one you don't hold. You're _good_, Tonio._

The memory of an exploding barbecue grill flashed across his mind.

_You _never_ missed your target like that._ _Not even when we were kids._

Another memory, this time of Gema, played in his head. She'd been trying to get the dog to fall asleep, and succeeded only in knocking herself out.

_You don't waste good._

When he was five, not long after the incident with the stolen lunch, Tony had nicked a pairing knife from the kitchen and used it to sharpen a stick that he'd found in the back yard. The housekeeper had found it, and his mom had thrown it away after trying to explain to the kindergartener that vampires were only make-believe. Unconvinced, Tony had called the stake to him when he went to bed that night. His mom had found it again the next morning, and it had earned him a swat for sneaking out after bedtime. By then, Tony knew better than to protest that he _hadn't _snuck anywhere.

_The only unfair advantage is the one you don't hold._

His dad was in danger. Real, honest-to-goodness, life-or-death danger. Sure, they may have had their differences, but they didn't matter. Not really.

_You don't waste good. You're _good_, Tonio._

Something clicked into place. He stood, new purpose in his movements, and strode back to the bullpen.

* * *

Gibbs paused on the balcony overlooking the squad room. Tony and his cousin were nowhere in evidence, Tim was at his computer, typing furiously, and Ziva was on the phone. Even at this distance, he could tell Ziva's conversation wasn't in English, but he wasn't sure what language it was. He joined them at roughly the same time Ziva hung up her phone.

Both she and McGee began talking at the same time. "Boss, I tracked the bank –" "That was one of my contacts –"

Gibbs held up a hand to silence the pair. "McGee."

"Boss, I tracked down the bank account that was texted to Tony – I don't think we're going to get very far, it's for an international bank in Nevis. I don't think their confidentiality laws have changed much in the last few years."

"Ziver?"

"I just finished speaking with one of my contacts in Italy. Carlo Macaluso arrived there in the middle of May, and is rumored to be extremely unhappy about his older brother's death."

Gema walked around the end of the bullpen next to Tony's desk, one hand slipping her cell back into her pocket. She recognized the name. "Macaluso? Wasn't he the mafioso Tonio arrested in Baltimore?" Tony had spent a month on Long Island with her after that fiasco. He hadn't given her many details, only enough to make her worry. Nine months was a long time to pretend to be someone else, after all.

"Yes, and we ruled him out earlier because he was caught in a fight between two gangs and killed in prison," Ziva replied.

"I think we just found our suspect," Gibbs stated. His gut was in complete agreement. "McGee, does Macaluso have any reason to be on Elba?"

Tim, still seated at his desk, quickly typed a string of commands into an international search. "Checking, Boss."

"Ziva, you get in contact with Interpol – I want everything they have on the Macalusos."

She nodded and got to work.

Gibbs turned his attention to Gema. "Where's your cousin?"

"I left him in the break room," she replied. "He needs time to think, Signore Gibbs, best to leave him to it for now."

Unnoticed, Tony walked around the half-wall divider at the far end of the bullpen from his desk. "No, I think I'm done thinking, Gema."

Gema smiled. A bright grin, nearly equal to the one Tony used when he was feeling truly happy. "Good. Papà is at the airport."

Tony tossed her his keys. "Go pick him up, then go back to my place. Make yourselves at home – I'll call when we have more information."

Gema caught the keys and, still smiling, headed for the elevator. Once she was gone, Tony spoke to Gibbs. "Abby's gone home already – I'm going to borrow her lab for a little while. I need someplace quiet to concentrate."

Before Gibbs could reply, McGee piped up with, "Boss, Carlo Macaluso owns a vacation home in Portaferrario."

"You mean Portoferraio?" Tony smirked at his teammate. "I think you've been hanging out with Ziva too much, Probie."

"Whatever, Tony," Tim rolled his eyes at the SFA.

Tony didn't see it, he was too busy asking his boss his own expression-based question. Gibbs beckoned for him to follow, and filled Tony in on the way down to Abby's lab. "Looks like our prime suspect is Mike Macaluso's younger brother. He's been in Italy for a few months, Ziva's contacts say he's pissed off that his older brother died in prison." He hit the button for Abby's floor on the elevator. "I've got her digging into whatever Interpol has on the man." The elevator lurched into motion.

Tony reached over and flipped the emergency stop switch. He took a deep breath and held it for long enough that Gibbs was about to order him to breathe when he finally let it out. "I don't want to say this, but I think I have to," Tony said in that rush of air. He wanted to let Gibbs know how much more important to him his opinion was than that of anyone in his family, but simply couldn't find the words.

"I know, Tony," Gibbs said, his voice quiet. He reached over and flicked the switch to re-start the elevator.

Tony smiled. Gibbs' tone was enough to let him know that the older man already knew exactly what he'd been trying to say. "You sure you're not a telepath, Boss?"

"Just know you is all," Gibbs replied. The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. "I'm gonna have Ducky come up. Want him to take a look at your eye."

Tony nodded in acknowledgement, understanding the implied order to let the ME know what had caused it. "Come get me if you need me," he said, but the doors closed again before Gibbs could reply.

Tony entered the lab, struck as always by how peaceful and calm it was in Abby's absence. He flicked the switch that turned on the lights in her refrigerator, but left the overhead fluorescents off. A quick perusal in the dim light of all the cabinets in the lab gave Tony a starting point – he needed the smallest of the metal mixing bowls in his cupboard at home, none of the bowls or other containers Abby had on hand would do for his purpose.

He snagged Abby's desk chair from her inner sanctum and one of the scented candles she had sitting on the filing cabinet and brought both out to the metal table in the main room. He had to dig a little to find a book of matches, but managed. Before lighting the candle, though, he couldn't help but take a sniff. _Lavender. _He smiled. _Smells like Nonna._ He sat in the chair and let the flickering light of the small candle wash over him.

He closed his eyes and pictured his kitchen. "Vieni da me, vieni da me," he began chanting it under his breath as he pictured himself walking across the linoleum and opening the cupboard next to the fridge. (Come to me, come to me.) He reached out, in his imagination, with his mind, and physically, and grasped the little steel bowl from the top of the stack. "Vieni da me ora," he said, pulling with his mind even as he pulled his arm towards his chest. (Come to me now.) His fingers suddenly registered the presence of cool metal and he opened his eyes.

A brief flash of pain stabbed through his skull, the weak light almost too much for him to take. He sat the bowl down on the table with a soft _clink_ of metal-on-metal. The headache was going to get worse, he knew, but for once he just didn't care. His psychic side and his agent side were no longer arguing, but actively working together for a change. He got up and checked the shelves of chemicals Abby kept in the lab, hoping for some plain water – he wasn't about to chance the bright lights of the hallway right then. He lucked out in spotting a half-empty jug of distilled water and filled the bowl before returning the jug to its place on the shelves.

Sitting back down, he moved the dish of water to where he could easily look into it, and slid the candle back just a bit, so that the reflection of the flame couldn't be seen on the surface of the water. "Faccio appello alla terra, l'essenza di tutto ciò che è fisico," he said quietly, though with a level of command in his tone that was usually reserved for giving orders in the field, and lightly tapped the side of the dish. (I call to the earth, the essence of all that is physical.) "Chiamo l'aria, l'essenza di tutto ciò che è immaginazione," he blew a light breath across the surface of the water, just enough to make the water ripple. (I call to the air, the essence of all that is imagination.) "Invito fuoco, l'essenza delle emozioni," he hovered a couple of fingers close to the flame of the candle just long enough to feel the heat before dipping them in the water. (I call on fire, essence of emotion.) "E chiamo ad acqua, essenza di ogni intuizione," he finished by sucking the droplets of water off his fingers. (I call to water, essence of all intuition.)

He looked down into the dish of water, seeing it resting innocently on the table for only a heartbeat, before focusing past the faint, skewed reflections of light. The ding of the elevator was noticed, but dismissed from further scrutiny. "I need to see Dad," he commanded. Shadows in the water, seemingly deeper than the scant inch or so of liquid could account for, started to clarify and color began swirling in, like seeing paint melting off a canvas, only in reverse.

Some part of himself not focusing on the whirling images of his father realized he had an audience, but as with the noise of the elevator, Tony resolved to deal with it later. The image in the dish finally crystallized and Tony could see his father. Senior was tied to an expensive-looking wooden armchair, ropes securing his wrists to the arms and his ankles to the legs. A piece of duct tape was pressed tightly across the man's mouth. _Damnit,_ Tony thought. _I wonder if he even thought to use his own ability to try to get out of this?_ He dragged his gaze from his dad and set to memorizing as much detail about the room as possible. While noticing details, such as the collection of leatherbound classics on the bookshelf behind his dad and the pattern on the Persian rug on the floor, his thoughts continued. _Maybe this is one of those 'misses' Gema was talking about. Sure, Dad _can_ talk anyone into anything when he wants to, but it doesn't always work. Particularly if the person he's trying to convince is completely against the idea. Like that time he tried to talk Mom out of sending me to Catholic school._ In addition to being able to mindspeak with his twin, Anthony D. DiNozzo, Senior's talent was a mild form of hypnotic compulsion – he had a 'silver tongue', so-to-speak.

When Tony was absolutely positive he had memorized the room, he closed his eyes and refocused on his immediate surroundings. "Hey, Ducky. How're things downstairs?" he asked without opening his eyes. The headache was worse than ever.

"Quiet, my boy," Ducky replied. Tony heard the click of the light switch and winced from the sudden flare, even through closed eyelids. Ducky saw the flinch and cast an appraising eye over him. "You're worse-off than Jethro led me to believe." Tony was pale, a thin sheen of sweat coating his face, and he had yet to open his eyes.

Tony shrugged. "It's worse now than it was earlier."

"Headache?" Ducky hazarded a guess.

"Yeah. Bad one. Already took six aspirin, but they're not working so well any more."

It was Ducky's turn to wince. "What was the per-tablet dosage, do you know?"

Tony shrugged again. "They're in my pocket," he replied, making no move to retrieve them.

Ducky strode over to where Tony was sitting. "Jacket pocket?" he asked, receiving a feeble nod from Tony. When Tony's left pocket failed to yield results, Ducky grabbed the bottle from the right pocket. "Three-twenty-five," he announced. "Did you take them over the course of the day, or all at once?" He was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

"All at once," Tony replied, barely cracking his right eye open to see the doctor. "That bad?"

"That depends," Ducky said, settling into lecture-mode. "Are you feeling any nausea? Dizziness? Abdominal pain? Any ringing in your ears?"

"No to all of the above," Tony replied. "Brain just feels like it's trying to tunnel out through my eyes is all."

"Abnormally tired?" Ducky made a mental note of Tony's reply, but pressed onwards.

"Tired, yeah. But it's not abnormal," Tony sighed. "Pushed too hard, I think."

"Jethro said your eye was bloody," Ducky laid a cool fingertip on Tony's left cheekbone, just under his eye. "Open up and let me see the damage."

Bracing himself for the stabbing light, Tony peeled his eyes open. Ducky retrieved a small magnifying glass from his own pocket and clicked the button on the handle to turn on a tiny light. "Look up, Anthony." Tony did so. "Good, now left. Right." Ducky released the slight pressure he'd been using to keep the eyelid of the way before turning his attention to the other eye. From Ducky's reaction, Tony could tell that both eyes were probably looking equally bad. The doctor repeated his commands before returning the glass to his pocket. "How is your visual acuity?" he asked. "Is there any blurriness?"

Tony looked around the room, squinting a little from the light. "Not blurry," he confirmed, then shut his eyes once more.

"That is good, my boy," Ducky said. "Some of the capillaries in your sclera have ruptured. You might do well with a cool compress. Do not, under any circumstances, take any more aspirin. If the headache worsens or fails to go away by morning, let me know. Also let me know if there is any changes in your vision, or if you start experiencing any of the symptoms I already mentioned."

"Sure thing, Ducky."

"And now, Anthony, would you be so kind as to explain just how you came to be in this situation?"

"Did it to myself," Tony said.

"How on earth…?"

Sighing, Tony started over at the beginning.

* * *

**A/N2:** I hope this chapter makes sense – I had some trouble with the bit in the middle (the scene in the bullpen).

Reviews are fabulous things to give _and_ receive!


	4. Slow Fade

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** As most of you are probably aware, S3E15 (_Head Case_) is where Vincenzo was originally mentioned. In S2E19 (_Conspiracy Theory_), Tony mentioned an uncle who'd been a successful businessman, but who'd been found at a golf course looking for mole people – this uncle is the one I took and named Alessandro. Just so y'all know where I'm coming from here.

The oh-so-wonderful-and-fabulous trekde provided me with 'peperina' when I was looking for a term of endearment that meant something akin to 'spitfire' or 'firecracker' – I'm not too sure of it's precise translation, but it works well, I hope!

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter Four: Slow Fade**

Vincenzo DiNozzo, known primarily to all his friends and family as simply 'Vinnie', scanned the crowd, looking for his little girl. _And if she could hear you even thinking about her as your little girl, she'd tear a strip off your skin, old man._ He readjusted his duffle and smiled.

"Papà!" Gema's voice cut through the babble of the crowd and Vinnie turned her direction.

"Peperina!" He slipped through the crowd and gathered Gema up in a tight hug. On releasing her, he indicated for her to lead the way. "How is Tonio?" he asked, in Italian.

Replying in the same language, Gema worked her way towards the entrance nearest to where she'd parked Tony's car. "Shaken. I don't think, of all the possible ways today could have gone, he was really expecting to have to deal with family problems."

"Does he know where Tony is, or who took him? I've been trying to reach him, but I simply can't."

"They think it's tied to that mafioso Tonio arrested, back when he was working in Baltimore. Tonio managed to reach Uncle Tony on his cell, but didn't get to talk to him. The man who has him wants the money that Nonna and Aunt Alice left Tonio."

They reached the door and began working their way passed the cars picking people up and unloading luggage towards the parking area. "May Fortuna smile on us," Vinnie whispered, hoping the goddess was listening. In a louder tone, he commented, "I wish Alessandro were still around." Vincenzo and Anthony's baby brother's gift had been the ability to augment the abilities of the rest of his family, but Alessandro had wound up succumbing to a brain-rotting cancer nearly twenty years earlier.

"You and me, both," Gema agreed. "He made the best cassata." Arriving at Tony's car, Gema unlocked the passenger door first before going around and getting behind the wheel. She didn't start the car yet, though. Instead, she turned to face her dad. "I think Tonio's finally starting to accept his gifts."

Vincenzo blinked in surprise. "That so? What managed to finally convince him?"

Gema cocked her head to the side, "Believe it or not, his boss."

Vinnie blinked again. "What? I mean… _What?_"

"You know how Tonio's main issue was that these abilities 'aren't fair'," she said the last with a credible imitation of a six year-old's whine. Vinnie nodded. "And you've heard Tonio talk about his boss before, specifically his boss's list of rules, right?" Another nod. "Well, Tonio was spouting off at the mouth with all his old arguments – the ones since he became a cop, at any rate – to one of his team, when his boss made a crack about letting him worry about the paperwork and then mentioned a rule number. Tonio explained the rule was one that said the only unfair advantage is one you don't have."

"Huh," Vinnie let out a chuckle. "I think I owe that man a steak dinner." Gema laughed in agreement and started the car. "So… Tell me more about the people Tonio works with."

Gema did so while navigating out of the parking lot. By the time they were halfway to Tony's apartment, the conversation had drifted back to the main reason they were both in DC and not on Long Island. "I think it's been since that summer after he broke his leg since Tonio actually used his talents," Gema commented, passing a slow-moving pickup. "He apported something today, but it hurt him. I could tell he had a headache and one of his eyes had gone bloody."

Vincenzo frowned. "Damnit," he swore. "And knowing him, he's not going to even try to rest until Tony's back home safe. Better take me to him, peperina."

As they'd already passed the exit to take them to the Navy Yard, Gema took the next exit and got back on the freeway going the opposite direction.

* * *

Though Gibbs would have much rather been in his basement, sanding something with a jar of bourbon at his elbow, he was actually back on the park bench overlooking the Potomac. Vance had headed home only a few minutes earlier, and Ziva and McGee were working quickly to unearth as much info as they possibly could. Ducky was down with Tony in Abby's lab. Thinking of Abby, Gibbs very nearly called her to come in and make sense of what he'd seen Tony do, but thought better of it. _She works too hard as it is. Let her have a good night's sleep._ He glanced at his watch. _Another twenty minutes, and I head in for a sitrep._

Though he believed very strongly in the power of intuition – in his line of work, how could he not? – seeing a bottle of painkillers and a Hershey bar appear out of nowhere was so far out of his comfort-zone that he was highly tempted to pretend he'd never seen it. But he wasn't in the habit of disbelieving what his senses told him. And what he'd seen… It wasn't at all like the sudden appearances of coins or doves that stage magicians did; it wasn't some sort of slight-of-hand trickery. Those things Tony had called to him didn't simply _appear_. No, they had _faded_ into being in his hands. It had happened quickly, sure, but not instantaneously. It took just long enough for his eyes to register exactly what was happening.

He scrubbed a hand through his short haircut and glanced at his watch again. _Screw it_, he got to his feet and strode back to the building. _I need more intel._

He'd just entered the elevator when he heard Gema DiNozzo call out, "Signore Gibbs! Wait a moment, please!"

He held a hand over the sensor on the elevator that would keep the door from closing and looked around the corner to see Gema and a man who could only be Vincenzo DiNozzo hurrying through the security checkpoint at the door. "Let 'em through, John," he called out to the security guard.

In short order, the two joined him in the elevator. "Thought Tony told you to go back to his place," Gibbs said, hitting the button to take them to the squad room.

Gema nodded, but it was Vincenzo who spoke. "That would be my fault, sir. I asked Gema to bring me to Tonio – he's going to need help of a sort you and your team, no matter how capable you are, cannot provide."

Vincenzo, much like Anthony DiNozzo, Senior, reminded Gibbs of his SFA, only in Vincenzo's case, it was the more relaxed aspects of Tony's personality. Vincenzo was dressed in a pair of worn-out sneakers, jeans that had definitely seen better days, a faded Mets t-shirt, and a jean jacket nearly identical to the one his daughter was wearing, with a mid-sized blue duffle slung over his shoulders. His posture, as well, echoed Tony's when the agent was feeling relaxed and mellow. Though he was identical, physically, to Senior, down to the last wrinkle and freckle (though Vincenzo's hair was slightly longer), Gibbs had the feeling that no one ever mixed up the two. Their attitudes were worlds apart.

"Jethro Gibbs," he introduced himself, holding out his hand. "Don't call me 'sir'."

"Vinnie," the older man replied, shaking Gibbs' hand with a firm, dry grip and a bright smile.

"What did you mean, about helping Tony?" Gibbs asked.

The elevator dinged its way to a stop and Vinnie and Gema followed Gibbs into the squad room. The agent led the pair past the bullpen, towards the elevator that would take them down to the lab. The look he leveled at Ziva and McGee on his way by made sure they weren't interrupted. "I know how Tonio can get, Jethro," Vinnie explained as they made their way to wherever his nephew might be hiding. "He pushes himself too hard."

On reaching the second elevator, Gibbs hit the button for Abby's floor, then hit the emergency stop switch once it began moving. "Yeah, I know. Doesn't explain why you're here."

Vinnie leaned against the elevator wall, a study in nonchalance. "Gema told you I can communicate telepathically with my brother," the woman in question was silently watching the conversation. "But that's just with Tony. Both of us have another skill that most don't. Tony's… well, his talent is in convincing people. It's like hypnosis, only his targets don't go in a trance or any stupid shit like that. Probably woulda made a helluva politician, if that'd been an interest of his. I don't have the same skill. My other talent is that I heal. Well… sorta." Vinnie shrugged a little. "I can't heal crap that a body can't – only stuff it would heal on its own, given time." He could see that Gibbs needed a better explanation. "Look at it this way – say you cut the hell out of your hand. You'd go in to the ER, they'd clean it out, stitch and bandage it, and send you on your way. Coupla weeks later, you're good as new, with only a scar to show for it. I cut out that wait-time in the middle. Same scenario, and you come to me? Your hand's healed up in a matter of a few minutes. New scenario: Say you didn't just cut your hand, but cut it clean off. The docs might be able to reattach it, if everything went well, but chances are they wouldn't be able to. Neither would I. I could heal the stump in an instant, but I can't make you grow a new hand, and I wouldn't even have the chance the docs would at reattaching it. Follow me?"

Even though Gibbs nodded, Vinnie and Gema could tell that he didn't, not really. He would need to see it before it made sense. Gema flicked the switch to restart the elevator. "He's here to make sure Tonio doesn't wind up hurting himself," was her only addition to what her father had said.

There really wasn't much Gibbs could say in reply, and so he kept his mouth shut. Moments later, the elevator ceased its motion and the doors opened with their customary _ding_.

The muffled sound of Ducky's distinctive voice clarified the closer they came to the open door to Abby's lab. "…fascinating. Simply fascinating, Anthony. Have you ever had these abilities studied in a scientific setting?" Tony's reply was mumbled. "I would dearly love to see what your brain is doing when you access these talents. I'm sure, if you agreed, I would be able to obtain the use of an F-MRI for an afternoon."

Gibbs was nearly pushed into the wall as Vinnie hurried past him. "No! Absolutely not!" he wasn't yelling, but he wasn't far from it, either. Gibbs was angry for all of a half-heartbeat before the analytical side of his nature caught up to him. He strode in behind the older man and realized Vincenzo was angry, sure, but the man was also honestly frightened about the mere suggestion of having the DiNozzo talents explored by science.

Tony, pressing a damp washcloth over his eyes, winced at his uncle's tone. "Hey, Uncle Vinnie. Thought I told Gema to take you home?"

"Sì, hai fatto, ma penso che hai bisogno di me qui più che ho bisogno di un pisolino, Tonio," Vinnie immediately toned down his voice and hurried to his nephew's side. (Yes, you did, but I think you need me here more than I need a nap, Tony.) "Quanto è grave il mal di testa questa volta?" he reached up and carefully pulled Tony's hands down. (How bad is the headache this time?)

"Bad," Tony replied.

Ducky simply stepped back a few paces so that he was next to Gibbs. "I was unaware Anthony's father had a twin," he said, his voice pitched not to carry. Gibbs didn't reply.

Vinnie beckoned his daughter closer and handed her his duffle. "There's a tin of cookies in there that Francisca sent with me. Why don't you see that they get somewhere they'll be appreciated?"

Even with his head feeling like his brain was one jarring motion from leaking out his eyes, Tony had to chuckle. "Aunt Fran's still not much of a baker, huh? If you leave them in the break room upstairs, I'm sure some dumb sap'll wind up eating them."

Gema nodded and slipped the strap over her shoulders. "Be back shortly," she said.

"Duck?" Gibbs jerked his chin to indicate the ME should accompany her. Just because she probably remembered the way didn't mean he was willing to get into another argument with Vance about policy, and policy was that visitors had to have an employee escort. Ducky nodded and walked a little more quickly than was normal to catch up with the young – in his eyes – lady.

While Gema and Ducky left, Vincenzo slowly peeled the damp rag off of his nephew's face. "Apri gli occhi per me." (Open your eyes for me.)

Gibbs had stepped a little closer, needing to see the damage himself once again. The fact that both of his SFA's eyes were now bloody confirmed that Tony had… done whatever it was he did, again.

The whites for both eyes were almost completely obscured by bright red blood. Vinnie hissed through his teeth. "You look like shit, sobillatore," the last word was said with a thick layer of fond exasperation. (troublemaker)

"Feel like it too, zio." (uncle)

Vinnie sighed. "You should know better than to wait until it comes to this, Tonio."

"And since when do I do what I'm supposed to?" Tony retorted. Headache or no, sarcasm came easily to him.

Vincenzo shook his head and lightly placed his hands over Tony's eyes. "Ricordate come eravate," he whispered, then moved his hands to rest on either side of his nephew's head. "Tornare a come stavi." (Remember how you were. Go back to how you were.)

Since Tony kept his eyes open, Gibbs could see exactly what Vinnie had been trying to explain in the elevator. The blood darkened to a brownish color before simply fading away over the course of perhaps half a minute. The tight lines of pain Tony sported anytime a headache was knocking at his skull also faded.

Tony shivered a little as the last of the pain faded. "Grazie." He stretched and stood. (Thanks.) He met Gibbs' eyes and smiled, though the expression was nowhere near the level of humor he normally sported. "Do you think you can get me to Italy? Preferably Portoferraio, but I'd take anywhere in a hundred-mile radius."

Gibbs looked his SFA over. He was definitely better now than he was even before he'd did that… whatever with the chocolate. "Probably. Why?"

Tony's smile brightened to it's normal strength. "Because there aren't many rules on what I can apport, Boss. I just have to know its exact location – doesn't matter how big it is, or if it's living or not. But it _does_ matter how close I am to it. It's easier to apport something from my desk while I'm here than it is to bring something from home. And if Uncle Vinnie here forgot to pack his skivvies again, he's outta luck, 'cause Long Island's out of my range."

"You're never gonna let me forget about that, are you?" Vincenzo grumbled. "I heal you, and this is the thanks I get?"

"Love you too, zio," Tony teased. "But seriously, I think I can get Dad away from where they're holding him. I might even grab the bad guy, too, just for the hell of it. But to do that, I have to be a _lot_ closer than I am right now… and the clock is ticking."

Gibbs had a really strong feeling that a highly creative report was once again in his future. "Way I understand it, this thing of yours goes easier on you if you practice." Tony nodded. "Then get practicing," Gibbs turned on his heel and hurried for the stairs. He didn't want to waste the time it would take to wait for the elevator. On reaching the bullpen, he saw that Ducky was entertaining Gema with a longwinded story of his youth, and Ziva and McGee were still diligently pulling together the info he'd requested.

"Ziva," he caught the former assassin's attention. "Print out what you've got so far, then run home and pack a bag. Stop by McGee's and get an overnight bag for him, too."

"We're going somewhere, Boss?" Tim asked, looking up from his computer.

"Italy," Gibbs said, sitting at his desk.

* * *

Once Gibbs had disappeared from the room, Tony turned to look at his uncle. "Dunno if you and Gema'll be allowed to come," he was apologetic.

Vinnie shook his head. "Doesn't matter. If we can get you to where you're supposed to be, then it won't matter if I go. Personally, I'd rather Gema go home, keep her out of trouble."

Tony nodded, "Okay, then. Practicing it is." He closed his eyes and pictured his apartment once again, this time, it was his bedroom. He mentally walked to his closet and retrieved his overnight bag from the shelf above his hanging suits. "Vieni da me," he began chanting under his breath. (Come to me.) Then he reached out with his hand and with his mind and _pulled._

His uncle laid a hand on the crown of Tony's head and soothed the ache that wanted so desperately to interrupt. "Easy, Tonio."

Tony sat the empty piece of luggage on Abby's evidence table and repeated the process with what he wanted with him. A pair of jeans, a couple of t-shirts, clean underwear and socks. His passport, the spare cash he kept in the hollowed-out book on his nightstand, and the suit he owned which didn't mind spending hours crammed into a suitcase. His backup weapon, spare clips for both it and his Sig, and the throwing-knife that Ziva had given him last Christmas. His travel-toiletries case. Bit by bit, all of it slowly materialized and was packed neatly into the plain black carry-on, all the while, Vinnie kept healing the underused pathways in his nephew's brain, each usage needing just a fraction less healing than the one before.

* * *

Gnawing on the remains of the last of the pizza, Gibbs quickly drew up a list of the things he wanted to have on hand. It took a couple of calls to get the right people to okay his requisitions, but he managed without needing to call Vance. Once the list was okayed, he handed it off to McGee. He then started making calls to track down transport that would get them to Italy faster than commercial flights.

* * *

Ziva only spent a couple of minutes at her own apartment – she kept a bag ready at all times, just in case something like this came up. It was simplicity itself to add her own backup weapon and a couple of blades to its contents. She then headed to McGee's place. She didn't have a key, but her lock-picking skill was nearly as fast. It took her a solid twenty minutes to track down Tim's carry-on; it had been buried under a pile of whatnot in his bedroom closet. Once it was located, though, only five minutes saw it filled with clean clothes and toiletries. On seeing the contents of his underwear drawer, Ziva couldn't help but make sure the boxers she packed for him were ones that had obviously been gifts from Abby – one pair, in particular, had a cartoon dog-tail printed on the back, with _Best in Show_ done in gold lettering across the front.

Thinking of dogs, Ziva took a moment to both make sure she had everything McGee might need and wonder where his German shepherd was. She shrugged it off, and promised herself to ask him later.

She glanced at her watch after locking the door to Tim's place behind her and saw that she was running ahead of her self-set schedule. Though Gibbs hadn't said to, she figured she may as well stop by Tony's place, too. Gibbs kept his own go-bag in the trunk of his car, so she wouldn't bother with his things.

On reaching Tony's apartment, she once again put her lock-picks to use, and let herself in. She searched for a full ten minutes before giving up on trying to find his carry-on and was about to use one of the larger suitcases he kept in the hall closet when she noticed something odd.

The titleless book that Tony kept on his nightstand was open, revealing an empty rectangular space.

_I suppose that question is answered,_ she thought, walking over to the nightstand and closing the book. _I wonder what he kept in there?_ She pushed the question from her mind and retrieved the smaller of the two wheeled suitcases from Tony's closet. Ziva then strode into Tony's bathroom to look for the little red leather bag that he kept his travel-kit in. It was under the sink, but even as she reached for it, it faded from view.

Startled, Ziva scrambled back from the space under the sink, bruising her hip against the tub. She didn't notice, nor would she have cared. She let out a blistering oath in Hebrew which would have, once upon a time, earned her a smack from her own father, had she been foolish enough to say it in his presence.

She backed out of Tony's bathroom, her eyes not leaving the space under the sink until she firmly closed the door that separated the bath from Tony's bedroom. She shook her head. _If Tony asks, I will just say I could not find it._ She turned to Tony's closet instead and slid the door to the side. She was just about to grab the hanger containing what she knew was Tony's favorite black sweater when it, too, disappeared in a slow-fade.

She cursed again, and decided that Tony was going to have to make-do with whatever he kept in the filing cabinet next to his desk.

No, she wasn't scared.

Or so she told her self the entire trip back to HQ.

* * *

Though he'd received a rundown on psychic talents from Tony, Ducky was currently receiving a similar description from Gema. Her explanation, however, consisted of less movie references and more actual descriptions. He also learned that she and Tony had been paid to participate in a study into psychic phenomena in the summer of 1989. Said study had definitely not gone particularly well; apparently the scientists running it had lost track of the fact that they were dealing with people, first and foremost, and _not_ some superior breed of laboratory rat. He couldn't fault Vincenzo for the man's reaction on hearing Ducky's comment, not after hearing Gema's descriptions of the borderline-torture she and Tony had experienced over the course of the two-week study.

Roughly an hour and a half after having left Tony with his uncle in the lab, Tony and Vincenzo arrived in the squad room, followed almost immediately by McGee. "Got everything on the list, Boss," Tim said, handing the page of notebook paper back to Gibbs. "It's in our usual sedan."

"Good," Gibbs replied, turning to Tony.

Tony shrugged a little, "I'm not where I should be with it, but Vinnie assures me that it shouldn't knock me on my ass again."

The elevator dinged, signaling the arrival of a harried-looking Ziva. She handed a small suitcase to Tim. "I retrieved everything I think we shall need, Gibbs." She gave Tony an odd, indecipherable look and glared at Tony's carry-on, slung casually over his shoulder. Tony gave her a confused glance in reply.

"Wheels up in one hour, got us a nonstop flight," Gibbs said, striding towards the elevator.

"Ducky?" Tony asked.

"Yes, my boy?"

"Could you keep Gema and Uncle Vinnie company until we get back? Maybe call Abby for us?"

The ME smiled, "Certainly. Come, my newfound friends, the hour grows late. I doubt there is anything further you can do here tonight."

Gema began to follow the doctor, but stopped in front of Tony. "Call. Don't care if there's news or not, you call us. Capire?" (Understand?) She poked him, hard, in the center of his chest.

Tony nodded. "Sì, certo." (Yes, of course.) He leaned over and gave her a quick hug. "Si riguardi." (Take care of yourself.)

"You, too."

After Gema stepped aside, Vincenzo gave his nephew a one-armed hug. "Dare mio fratello un pugno alla mascella quando lo vedi," he said. (Give my brother a punch to the jaw when you see him.) He was uncommonly serious as he said it. "Se lo merita per averci fatto preoccupare." (He deserves it for making us worry.)

Tony shook his head. "I think I'll leave that to you, zio. Or better yet, I'll drop him at your place and let Aunt Fran deal with him."

Vinnie winced. "No, _nobody_ deserves _that_!"

Tony laughed at his uncle's exaggerated tone, making sure to keep a cheerful expression on his face until Ducky, Gema, and Vinnie were safely out-of-the-way, riding down in the elevator. "So what's the plan, Boss?" Tony turned to Gibbs, all business now that his family was no longer watching.

* * *

**A/N2:** Though I, personally, am not a fan of Tiva, I have a sinking suspicion that the show is eventually going to go there. However, I do enjoy Tony and Ziva's mutual antagonistic flirting when it surfaces on the show. Yes, it's contradictory, but it's my brain, damnit! :-P Anyway, please remember to let me know what y'all think.


	5. Within the Confines ofa Very Small Plane

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** The NCIS Wiki has Gibbs' birthday as Nov. 10, 1958. So, he turned 52 just prior to the start of this tale (if you're curious, I set Monday, Nov. 15, 2010 as the first day of this story) – this is pertinent simply because most federal jobs allow for early retirement (with full benefits as such) at 55, and most have mandatory retirement at 65 (or they did when I last checked, back in 1998 – if it's changed, please assume this is an alternate universe wherein the law/guideline/whatever wasn't changed).

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter Five: Within the Confines of a Very Small Plane**

It was rapidly approaching one in the morning, and under normal circumstances, Tony would be elated to be flying in a Gulfstream G100, but aside from an idle curiosity as to who owed Gibbs a big enough favor to lend the plane (as it was newer and smaller than SecNav's), he simply didn't care. Tony was uncommonly focused, reading through the printouts of the intel McGee and Ziva had located on Carlo Macaluso. Tim, after having set up a forwarding system that would ping any calls to Tony's cell through the on-board phone system, was taking the chance to get some sleep. Ziva was penning a letter to her aunt in Tel Aviv. Gibbs flipped through some of the printouts on Macaluso, trying to get a feel for the man, while surreptitiously keeping an eye on DiNozzo.

The plane had just taken off from a refueling stop in San Juan, Puerto Rico when Tony sighed and tossed the stack of papers he'd been perusing down on the small table where he was sitting. "When are we supposed to arrive in Palermo?"

"About quarter after eleven, DC time," Gibbs replied. "Have a chopper on standby to get us to Portoferraio." He sat his own stack of printouts down and gave his SFA a hard look. "Might want to get some shuteye."

Tony shook his head. "Don't think I'd be able to, not right now." He rubbed lightly at his forehead.

"Headache back?"

"Hasn't really gone away, but it's bearable. I'll live." Tony stretched a kink out of his shoulders. "Once we get to Portoferraio, what's the plan, Boss?"

"Isn't that my line, DiNozzo?"

Tony looked, really _looked_, at his boss. Gibbs wore an odd expression, one that clearly said he expected to wake from this odd dream at any minute, that he couldn't _quite_ believe what was going on, but was tempered with a half-smile of amusement. "Excuse me?" Tony couldn't help but ask.

"Had McGee requisition a set of standard surveillance gear, plus a few odds and ends," Gibbs replied. He sorted through the loose papers cluttering the small table for a moment before locating the list of gear. He handed it to Tony.

Tony took it, but maintained eye-contact with Gibbs for a long moment. "Boss?"

"For this one, it'll only be if you start acting like an idiot."

His eyebrows inched closer together on his brow, a long vertical line appearing between the two. "You're giving me the lead?"

Gibbs nodded, the motion barely perceptible. "Yeah. Your dad. Your… abilities. The bad guy on this one's obviously got some sort of beef with you. So, your case."

"As long as I don't break rule ten." Tony let a little smile surface on his face and finally turned his attention to the list of stuff they'd brought with them.

_Hmm… Want this to wrap quickly. I know Gibbs said he'd worry about the paperwork, but… I want to make sure that there isn't too much that can't be explained away. Let's see… So far, we've got Probie's tech pegging Dad's cell in Portoferraio and Ziva's international contacts telling us that Mike Macaluso's little brother is in the area and mad as hell his brother died in prison. _Tony shuffled through the papers until he located the information on Carlo Macaluso's vacation home on Elba. _At least I know why his voice was somewhat familiar. He was at Mike's trial, as a witness for the prosecution. Official version of the story had him not wanting to follow in his family's less-than-legal pursuits, but I talked to him before the trial started, back before it came out that I was Tony DiNozzo, Baltimore PD, and not Antonio Russo, Mike's best friend. Carlo told me then that he didn't much care for how sloppy Mike ran things, said he figured some time in prison would do him good, and give Carlo a chance to prove to the family that he could handle things on his own._ These thoughts flitted through his brain as he read through the short paragraph on Carlo's house. _Wonder if there's a floor-plan or blueprints anywhere for this place?_ He sorted through the print-outs once more and located a simple floor-plan that showed a house that consisted of a basement, main floor, second story, and attic. The details on the first printout indicated the house had been built by a wealthy Englishman in 1870 and the floor-plan confirmed that it was Victorian-style. Tony frowned and sat the papers aside. _Would really do better with the blueprints._

"Hey, Probie!" Tony shouted, startling Tim enough that he fell off of the sofa on which he'd been napping.

"Huh?" McGee yawned and scrubbed sleep-sand out of his eyes.

"Can you get a copy of the blueprints for Macaluso's place in Portoferraio?"

Tim climbed to his feet and stretched. "Um… Yeah, I can if they're archived digitally, but not until we land. The satellite the onboard phones run through is not set up to allow for any data transfer over and above the stream from the flight data recorder."

Tony could tell that Probie had dearly wanted to go into a far more detailed description on the technical reasons why, but after more than six years of working with both Tony and Gibbs, he refrained. Tony checked his watch. "The next fuel-stop's in Cape Verde at quarter-past six, should only take twenty to thirty minutes. Will that be long enough to get the blueprints?"

Tim flopped back onto the sofa. "Should be," he nodded. "Alternatively, I can call Abby and have her email the info to me, then I can go ahead and print it out in just a couple of minutes. Assuming, of course, they're digitally archived."

"Go ahead and do it, then," Tony said, making a shooing motion with his hands. Once the call was made, Tim stretched back out on 'his' sofa and recommenced his nap, not once did it cross his mind that Tony was taking charge – however, that could have simply been because he was mostly asleep during the course of the conversation, and Abbybabble had a tendency to override any prior concerns, particularly if they hadn't yet surfaced in his brain.

Meanwhile, Ziva finished up her letter, and followed Tim's example, only utilizing a recliner for her own bed-of-choice. Tony continued shuffling through the papers and coming up with a tentative plan of action. About an hour after Ziva's lumberjack snores began rattling around the cabin, Gibbs stood and stretched a kink out of his shoulders. He claimed the other recliner, leveling a look at Tony that clearly indicated that, in charge for this case or not, he was expected to get some sleep himself. Tony figured that it was a good plan and kicked back in one of the four traditional airline seats that formed a short row along the wall across from the table.

Once Tony succumbed to sleep, Gibbs opened his own eyes; he'd never needed much sleep, and he had some thinking to do. Contrary to popular opinion, he actually missed his 'retirement' – he had truly enjoyed having the time to laze about, working only on patching up Franks' ramshackle house, or putting together furniture, or working on a boat, or going fishing, or any of a dozen things he hadn't had time to fully enjoy since he'd been a kid back in Pennsylvania. However, after first Ziva, then Fornell called him back to DC, he'd seen that his team hadn't really settled into the positions he assumed they would take. Tony, in particular, was very put-upon by the team – none of them (other than Lee, and look how _that_ turned out) had really seen him as a leader. The problem was ongoing, Gibbs knew, particularly with McGee. The case with Renny Grant just brought it into sharp relief: McGee either couldn't or _wouldn't_ see DiNozzo as a team leader. Prior to the revelations of his SFA's previously-unknown abilities earlier that day, Gibbs had been planning to slowly ease back from being acting team lead, handing more and more cases over to DiNozzo to lead, with the eventual goal of recapturing his retirement in about three years.

Now, though, he wasn't sure if three years would be long enough. He was going to have to play it by ear, at least until he had a handle on how his SFA using his abilities affected the job, particularly in just how creative the report-writing would need to be.

* * *

The small jet landed for its second refueling stop in Cape Verde, Africa at exactly a quarter to six in the morning, DC time – locally, it was a quarter to nine. While the plane was refueled, McGee managed to download the blueprints Abby had emailed to him. Ziva continued sleeping, as did Gibbs, but Tony was far too keyed up to try snoozing again. He busied himself by reviewing and re-reviewing all the information they had available.

Tim spent several minutes watching Tony before Tony finally lowered the paper he was staring at and meeting Tim's gaze across the tiny table. "What?"

McGee shook his head a little. "Sorry – didn't mean to stare."

"Why were you?" Tony forced a grin. "I mean, I know I'm ruggedly handsome, Probie, but you're just not my type."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Ha-ha-freakin'-ha. No… I was just wondering…"

After waiting what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only a handful of heartbeats, Tony sighed. "Just ask me whatever it is. I guarantee I've probably already answered the question at least once before in my life."

"Why?" Tim winced a little and rephrased, "I mean, how come you never mentioned any of this before?"

Tony sat down the sheet of text he'd been holding. He glanced out the plane's window for a long moment before looking back to his partner. "Lots of reasons," Tony said, his voice uncommonly serious and quiet. "Mainly, who would've believed me? This sort of crap is fodder for bad sci-fi movies shown at three in the morning, just before the infomercials for exercise equipment."

"Does Abby know about it?" Tim asked. "Because you _know_ she'd believe you."

Tony paled a little and swallowed. _Shit,_ he thought._ Abby doesn't know. Yet._ The 'yet' took on an ominous thundering echo that reverberated through his mind. "Uh… Not unless one of you guys told her."

"But you have to know she wouldn't… _not_ believe you," Tim stumbled a little over the phrasing.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Tony's mouth. "I know she'd believe me – it's more that I am _not_ looking forward to trying to fend off her attempts to _study_ me." A shiver crept down his spine. "I had quite enough of _that_ for one lifetime." The look on McGee's face clearly demanded clarification of what he had just said. Tony ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Look, I tried to help out the scientific community once before… Gema and I both did. We were young, stupidly naïve, and broke. Five grand sounded like a fair trade for two weeks' time under a microscope." He let out a strange noise that sounded a little like a drowning, angry cat. "Ever wonder just why I hate hospitals so much? _They're_ why."

Tim's forehead wrinkled. "How so?" he asked.

"The first day was okay, compared to the rest of it, I mean. That first day was just a long string of physicals, blood tests, eye exams, stuff like that. They called it 'baseline readings'. Day two was when it started going sideways…" Tony fell silent and McGee could tell his memory was replaying events better left forgotten.

"Sorry I asked," Tim muttered, his imagination painting scenes that would make for great inclusions in a novel, but which lost their appeal when the 'starring role' was played by one of his best friends. "But you have to know that Abby wouldn't do that."

Tony let out a humorless chuckle. "Yeah, I know. Still doesn't change anything."

Tim gave a little nod. "In either case, it's not my story to tell – if you want her to know, you'll have to tell her yourself."

Tony frowned. He glanced over to where Gibbs and Ziva were still sleeping. "Hopefully, I won't have to." Outside, the ground crew finished their tasks, and the pilot announced that they would be taking off again in ten minutes.

"You know Gibbs won't say anything."

Tony nodded. "I know. But Ziva? I realize she and Abby aren't as close as Abby and Kate were, but they still have that whole girl-thing going for them." A flash of true DiNozzo humor surfaced, "How hard do you think it would be to make arm-guards out of Kevlar?"

Tim smirked. "Abby-punch-proof?" He shook his head and let a hiss of air out through his teeth. "I don't think it's possible."

Tony's own smile faded. "Yeah. I know. Still, it's nice to think about."

The sound of the jet's engines starting up again brought a small pause to their conversation. After takeoff, McGee loosened his seatbelt. "So… About what you can do, specifically…"

"Yeah?"

"Your cousin said you see things that have already happened?"

Tony nodded. "Yeah. What about it?"

"Well… How does it work?"

"It usually doesn't," Tony explained. "But _if_ it works, then it's sort of like… A memory, or a dream, or even a memory of a dream – I just _know_ it's something I haven't really experienced, but I still _see_ it."

McGee's confused-face stared back at Tony from across the table. "Not really what I meant," he said.

"I don't really know how to describe it, Tim," Tony said. "It's a little like… Well, do you remember the old film projectors from school? Not the ones for the movies, but the slide-show ones?"

"Yeah, we had those in elementary. Upgraded to an early version of Power-point by the time I was in high school, though."

"Okay, say you've got two of those projectors set up side-by-side, so they're both aimed at the same screen. The one on the right is showing the real world. Now, you turn on the one on the left, and dim the light for the 'real world'. That's _almost_ what it's like. I'll see an event from the past like that, this bright overlay to what's really happening."

"Is it something that just happens on its own? Or can you pick and choose what you see?"

"I pick," Tony replied. "But when the talent first started showing up, it was… random." A nostalgic little smile surfaced. "You want to know the real reason why I hate Dad's Civil War hobby so much?" He waited until Tim nodded before continuing. "The battles he and his buddies love to reenact – I've _seen_ them. Places like those, places where Bad Things have gone down," McGee could hear the capital letters on the words, "those are the places where the past is imprinted most strongly, all but laser-etched on its anima."

"Anima?"

"Sorry," Tony looked a little sheepish. "It means the… the soul or spirit. The _essence_ of a thing."

"Good word," McGee grinned. Tony echoed it, albeit weakly. "Gema also said you can 'scry current events'?"

Tony nodded. "It's a little harder, but yeah. I can, with a little preparation, see what's happening now."

"What preparation?"

He shrugged a little. "It's nothing much, just needs to be dark and quiet. Helps a lot if I have some sort of reflective surface. Water's best, but an empty picture frame will do in a pinch." Tony chuckled lightly. "It's actually one of the few talents that Hollywood usually gets pretty accurate, except that I never see fog. For me, everything starts out like a bunch of paint all swirled together, then the colors pull apart and form shapes."

A thought suddenly struck McGee, and he let out his own quiet laugh. "I suppose you never had to worry about getting into trouble for trying to sneak into the girls' locker room, huh?"

Tony blinked at McGee before adding his laughter to Tim's – it was as much at himself as at the thought of using his talent to sneak peaks of naked girls. "You know, Probie, you probably won't believe this, but I _never_ scried for that."

Some of Tim's mirth drained away. "Why not?"

Tony shrugged again. "Goes back to that whole thing I have – _had_ – that I think – _thought_ – it was cheating. Besides, I have to have some sort of connection to what I scry in order for it to work."

"What kind of connection?"

"Different kinds. I can look at a place I've been that I really liked – for example, I could probably scry my room at my old frat house with minimal effort, but trying to check out the conditions on Key West would be harder. I spent three years in my room at the frat, but only a week on the beaches of that particular tropical nugget of paradise. I can also look for people who are important to me. I did that earlier, looking for Dad. When I checked, he was being held in a study or library-style room. I plan to check again once we reach Portoferraio."

McGee nodded slowly. "I think I'm starting to understand. What about that third ability Gema told us about?"

"Apportation," Tony supplied the word that had obviously escaped Tim's mind. "Anyway, that's the technical term for it. Nonna always called it 'fetching'."

Tim swept aside the mental image of a cartoon dog with a collar reading 'Tony' chasing after a stick. "That's… what, exactly?"

"It's the materialization, disappearance, or teleportation of an object. Again, not my words, just the technical jargon. Essentially, it means I can force something to my physical presence just by willing it. It's the most difficult of my talents and has the most restrictions. When it comes to seeing the past, all that matters is that I'm in the area I want to see. Scrying, I already mentioned – I need some sort of connection to what I'm looking for. But with apportation… Well, I don't have any limits on the type of item or its size, but I have to be within a maximum of about a hundred miles of where the object's located. Closer, if it's really heavy or if it's living."

In all honesty, it actually made sense to McGee. The fantasy RPG-addict knew, however, that it was likely that little of it actually made sense to Gibbs. _I suppose only time will tell on that score,_ he thought. "Does it work in reverse?" Tim asked.

"What?"

"Well, you can bring stuff _to_ you, but can you send it back? Say we got snowed in at work and everything was dull and quiet. You could bring a movie by apportating it to you, but when we were done watching it, could you put it back on your shelf in your living room?"

"Firstly, it's 'apporting' – you've _definitely _been spending too much time with Ziva – and secondly, why would I bother? Something small like that isn't really worth the effort when I can just tuck it into my backpack and carry it home like a normal person."

McGee sighed. "Come on, Tony – you know what I meant."

Tony shrugged again. "I suppose so, but I never tried."

"Why not?"

"Most of the things I've apported in my life were little – my keys, my wallet, and, on more occasions than I care to admit, homework. Not really stuff you'd _want_ to send back."

Tim decided to shift tracks slightly. "Okay, so it's something to look into later. Do you know how it works? Is it like telekinesis?"

"The scientists like to group them together, but from my perspective, they're not really the same thing," Tony explained. "Telekinesis moves things by thought alone, sure, but whatever's being moved does just that – _move_."

"And how's that different from what you do?" One of McGee's eyebrows was starting to creep higher than the other.

"Those two weeks Gema and I spent in hell did manage to prove one thing conclusively – the stuff I apport doesn't _move_. It simply fades from its starting point and reappears in my hands. There was a lot of technobabble about subspace and quantum tunneling and even some damn thing that one guy kept on about that he called 'entanglement', but all that told me was they didn't know what was going on."

Something deep within McGee's brain twitched at hearing 'quantum tunneling' and 'entanglement' coming out of Tony's mouth, but he told that bit of grey matter to be still. _It's not like Tony really knows what they were talking about, after all._ "Did they ever figure it out?"

Tony let out a derisive little snort. "Nope. Tried like hell to keep me and Gema there, though. Luckily, Uncle Vinnie brought Aunt Fran to pick us up." He smiled a little at the memory. "I'm pretty sure a couple of the scientists still have nightmares about what she threatened to do to them if they tried to keep us longer than the two weeks we'd signed up for."

"Sounds like an interesting woman."

Tony nodded. "Yeah. That's _one_ way to describe her. She's two inches shorter than Gema and acts like she barely speaks English. She was born and raised in Palermo; that's Sicily's capital, if you didn't know already. Dad and Uncle Vinnie spent summers there with some of their cousins – Nonno's brothers' kids – and they met her just after they graduated high school. Dad came home to Long Island that fall and went to college. Uncle Vinnie came home the following March with Aunt Fran and they opened the butcher shop." He shook his head. "Anyway, she likes to play to the American stereotype of Sicilians, so it always looks like her temper is on a hair-trigger, but she's probably the nicest person you'll ever meet."

That same inner bit of Tim's brain that had twitched at Tony dropping physics vocabulary was taking furious notes. _This is probably the most honest I've ever seen him be about his family, except for how he acts when his dad is around._ "Does she have a talent, too?"

Tony teetered his hand in the 'sorta' gesture. "Kinda," he said. "She's… Well, the right word's fonte, but it doesn't translate into English – not for this, anyway."

"Fountain?" Tim hazarded a guess on the root of the word.

Tony shook his head. "Not exactly. The word by itself can mean a fountain, or a well, or a spring, pool, or reservoir, but that's not quite right. What Aunt Fran does is store energy." At the puzzled expression on Tim's face, Tony attempted to clarify his statement. "Have you ever been wound up so bad you couldn't get to sleep? And not 'cause of caffeine?"

Tim nodded. "Yeah."

"Spend ten minutes in Aunt Fran's company, and you'll calm right down. But if you're dragging – like spent the night before partying and now have the mother of all hangovers _dragging_, and you spend another ten minutes with Aunt Fran? You'll perk right up. Sure, you'll still be hungover – unless you chat with Uncle Vinnie – but you won't feel like you've been hit by a train any more."

"So what does Vinnie do?"

"He heals." Tony's tone of voice indicated he thought he'd said as much already.

Tim tried to run the conversation back through his brain, but there'd simply been too many details, so he couldn't say for sure whether or not Tony had actually mentioned as much. When he realized that Tony had been silent long enough to warrant a reply, Tim shook his head. "I feel like I should be taking notes," he admitted.

Tony made a small gesture with his hands, almost as though he were trying to say 'been there' or maybe 'welcome to my world'. What he said out loud, though, was, "That the end of Twenty Questions? Can we get back to work now?"

A light stain of pink crept up McGee's collar and he went back to studying the blueprints on the laptop while DiNozzo returned his attention to the available hardcopy.

* * *

A hand on Tony's shoulder was what pulled him from a disturbing dream that starred the sadistic scientists from when he'd been a teenager, a fishbowl-style room lit with blue lights, and Abby's voice echoing dismally, "Let's see how good you are now!"

He yawned and rubbed the kink out of his neck. "We're landing in ten, DiNozzo." Tony nodded at Gibbs to show he'd heard him, then stood and stretched as far as the cramped quarters of the small jet would allow.

Tony flopped onto the airline seat he'd napped in much earlier in his day and buckled his seatbelt. All of the papers he'd been reading had already been stowed. He glanced at his watch, then coaxed his brain into figuring time-zones. "Right on time," he muttered. "We'll have some time to kill before the connection to Portoferraio, right?"

"About forty-five minutes," Gibbs replied.

"Good," Tony said. He'd been to Palermo almost more times than he could count while growing up and knew the area around the airport reasonably well. He had a few things he'd need to purchase.

* * *

**A/N2:** I'd hit a snag in writing this: I got to the point where Tony asks Gibbs what the plan was, and then my muse went silent – that creepy-silent stare with her arms crossed, one foot tapping, and the 'hey, dumbass' look on her face. Eventually, it dawned on me that Gibbs isn't handling the reins for this case; the rest of the chapter came together pretty quickly after that.

I also figured out the Palermo question – it's not actually something _Tony_ said, but a piece of Michael Weatherly's commentary I was remembering (I'm pretty sure it's for _Twilight_, said when Tom Morrow is staring at the world map in MTAC).

Oh, and just in case y'all really wanted to know, the cruising speed of a Gulfstream G100 is 460 knots (just shy of 530 MPH, or just about 850 KPH).

Reviews are made of win! Be a winner!


	6. Outside, Looking In

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** The internet failed me in my research; as a result, the store Tony visits is entirely a figment of my imagination (I was unable to find out if Palermo had anything closely resembling a WalMart/Kmart/Target, so I invented what I needed and borrowed the name from _The Evil Dead_ series of movies – which I also have absolutely _nothing_ to do with).

I also want to reiterate that I know next to nothing about the Italian language, so if y'all know a better way for me to say what I meant, _please_ let me know! Thanks in advance.

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter Six: Outside, Looking In**

Tony glanced at the time displayed on the industrial analog clock hanging on the wall of one of the many small waiting areas for private aircraft at the Palermo airport. Factoring in travel-time, it didn't leave him long to get what he needed. "Hey, I have a quick errand to run, guys. I'll be back before the chopper's scheduled to leave, though. Why don't you grab a bite to eat from the café here while you wait." He indicated a small snack bar not far from where the team was waiting.

Almost as though the suggestion were a cue, McGee's stomach growled noisily. "Sounds good to me," he said, rising from the hard plastic chair where he'd been sitting, watching small jets take off and land.

Gibbs simply nodded and leveled a look at Tony. The glance he directed in Ziva's direction clearly indicated that, acting boss or not for this trip, Tony was expected to take Ziva with him.

Giving Gibbs a minute nod to indicate he'd read and would heed the unspoken order, he tapped Ziva's shoulder. "You're with me, Girl-Probie."

Ziva fell into step beside her partner as they quickly wound their way through the throngs of people, pausing momentarily while Tony made use of an ATM, and out into the bright, midday sunlight. Tony hailed a taxi, and the pair piled into the back seat. "Più vicina S-Mart, amico mio. Se mi può arrivare in cinque minuti, c'è una punta pesante in esso per voi," Tony instructed the heavyset, middle-aged driver. (Nearest S-Mart, my friend. If you can get me there in five minutes, there's a hefty tip in it for you.)

The cabbie did a quick once-over of Tony and Ziva's appearance in his rear-view mirror, before exclaiming, "Assolutamente, signore!" and shifting the taxi into drive. (Absolutely, sir!)

With traffic like it was, it took a little over seven minutes for the cab to pull into the parking area in front of the multi-national department store, but it was close enough to Tony's desired time that he still made sure to give the driver a ten-euro tip. "Si prega di attendere – ci dovrebbero essere solo pochi minuti." (Please wait – we should only be a few minutes.)

The cabbie nodded enthusiastically, and told them where he would park. While the man maneuvered away, Tony hurried into the store, followed closely by Ziva. "Why here?" she asked, keeping step with him.

"They all have the exact same layout," Tony explained. "Doesn't matter if you're in Ancorage, Baltimore, or Rome, all their stores are set up on the exact same floor-plan."

Ziva didn't know that, but then again, she tended to prefer to do her shopping at specialty stores. In her eyes, the quality was always better and thus worth the slightly higher prices than at the mega-chains. "What are you getting?" She noticed they were heading for the office supplies.

"I need chalk," Tony said, his voice a little distracted. "Chalk, a small bowl, a candle, and a few other odds and ends."

Not having been privy to Tony's actions in Abby's lab, nor to the conversations with Ducky, Gibbs, or McGee, confusion surfaced on her face. "I do not understand," she admitted, following Tony down an aisle lined with pens, pencils, and other writing utensils. He paused about halfway down the aisle and stooped to grab a box of plain white chalk, housed in a familiar yellow-and-green box. He handed it to her before hurring over to housewears.

"If I'd been using my talents," he explained while walking, "since I was a kid, I probably wouldn't need any of this stuff. They're just crutches. I'm sure you noticed that Gema didn't need a whole lot of props to do what she does." The pair wound up in another aisle, this one containing glasses and mugs, plates and bowls in all shapes and sizes. "But I haven't really used any of my gifts since I was a teenager." His eyes scanned the options for bowls. He selected a shrink-wrapped stack of four, made of porcelin, glazed in plain matte black, which had most likely been intended as small dip or dessert trays, as they could only hold a few ounces at a time. Again, he handed the bundle to Ziva. "So, I need some help." A pre-filled salt shaker from the next aisle over joined the oddments they were collecting.

Ziva equated Tony's explaination to the hand-wraps that martial artists used before sufficient calluses built up and nodded. "I suppose I can understand the need for help," she said. "But I do not see how salt and chalk figure into what you do."

Tony lead the way to where candles were kept. "Just has to do with how I learned to use the talents in the first place, Ziva."

"I still do not see the connection," she replied, halting next to him at the end of the aisle containing a mixture of candles, incense, and cheap art reproductions and their frames.

Tony skimmed the labels on the candles, trying to find one that was unscented, or one whose scent was like the lavender had been – one with strong mental ties to the early years of learning about what he could do. "Even though Mom tried to make me Catholic like her, just about the only things I remember are the Saints, and a few of the more-common prayers." He finally spotted a two-pack of unscented votives. Grabbing the box, he checked his watch. _Good, still have time._ He glanced at his partner and saw that her confusion had merely deepened. He ran a hand through his hair and held up a hand to forestall any further questions for the moment. _What else do I need?_ He quickly ran through a mental list he'd not thought of in more than twenty years.

"Spelt," he muttered. "And wine, and... Damn it, I need the jewlery counter, too."

"You are not making any sense," Ziva complained as they jogged towards the grocery side of the store.

Tony dodged neatly around a harried-looking young woman who had a firm grip on a pouting toddler. "Sorry, Ziva," he said, heading for the aisle of baking supplies. "It's just that we don't really have a whole lot of time. I'll explain what I can, as I can, but I don't guarantee that any of it will make sense."

He skidded to a halt midway down the row and set to searching labels on small packets of whole grains and nuts. Ziva accepted his non-explaination. "Perhaps if you would tell me what else you need, I can get it for you."

The tension in his face smoothed some. "Thanks," he said. "I need something made out of gold – preferably twenty-four karat, but no less than fourteen. Coin-size would be best, but anything will do. It's for Pluto." He finally spotted a packet of organic spelt among the items on offer and grabbed it.

"I will meet you at the cashier," Ziva said, pushing aside her questions on Pluto for the time-being. She recalled they had strode past the jewlery counter on their way in, and so headed that direction.

While Tony selected a decent red wine, manufactured locally, and a package of individually-wrapped cavallucci, Ziva scanned the various items on display at the jeweler's. Going off of Tony's admittedly scant description, she bypassed the various earrings, watches, rings, and bracelets, and focused on the small collection of charms and pendants on display. Most of them she dismissed immediately as being either not of a high enough karat-count or for containing various (and mostly fake) gemstones, but a small pendant off in the corner caught her eye. It was a dime-sized 18K reproduction of an acient Roman coin, mounted within a rather gaudy circle of cubic zirconium. She caught the attention of the clerk and had it boxed within moments.

Minutes later, she met up with Tony at the cashier. While the items were being tallied, he took a glance at her selection and favored her with a bright smile. "Perfect. Just have to remove that ring around it."

Feeling more pleased than she was altogether comfortable with, Ziva returned his smile.

Their cabbie had been true to his word, and ten minutes later, they were back at the airport, with only a few minutes to spare. "Did you get what you needed?" Gibbs asked, watching their helicopter landing through the extensive windows of the waiting area.

Tony nodded. "Yeah. I did."

There was no time for further conversation as they loaded their gear on the bare-bones chopper, and it was far too noisy once airborn to even think of talking. During the entire hour and a half flight to Portoferraio, Tony rested with his eyes closed, focusing intently on remembering all the steps he needed from a ritual last used when he'd been thirteen years old. Most of the worry he felt for his father was kept strictly in check, but tendrils of the emotion kept battering him, making him second-guess himself.

On the part of the rest of the team, however, they spent most of the flight staring at Tony, trying to digest the various bits of new information they now possessed regarding a man they had thought they'd known everything about.

_Why is it that the dossier we had on him mentioned nothing about any of this?_ Ziva's thoughts were, perhaps, the most practical of the bunch. _Certainly, it mentioned all of his schooling, his years on the various police departments, even the broken engagement with that woman, but not so much as a… beep? Bleat? Blip? Yes, I believe that is it. Not so much as a blip of his having paranormal abilities. Mossad knew he spent time with distant family in Italy and England both, but absolutely _nothing _about any of this!_ The thoughts circled in this manner for most of the trip, lightly interspersed with intense curiosity regarding the collection of items Tony had purchased. By the time the helicopter landed and a taxi had dropped them off at a local hotel, Ziva's only conclusion was that the lack of any whisper as to her partner's talents within the old Mossad dossier she'd been given was simply one more reason to have left that particular organization.

The hotel itself was a converted house, containing only a dozen rooms or so. They were given the 'royal suite' – the attic level of the house was a single 'room', containing two bedrooms, a bath, kitchenette, and lounge area. Hardwood flooring, aged (but still tasteful) furnishings, and regional décor showed the small hotel to be successful, but not overly so. A quick check showed that one bedroom held a pair of twin beds, and the other contained a queen. "I'll take the couch," Tony volunteered, managing to surprise everyone. He sat his duffle on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and the two bags from S-Mart on the sofa itself. "Since she's the only girl, I think Ziva should take the queen."

The look on Gibbs' face – a combination of light amusement and pride in his protégé – halted any argument from either McGee or David. After depositing the cases of miscellaneous equipment they'd brought on the counter and floor of the kitchenette, Gibbs, McGee, and Ziva all deposited their own suitcases on the beds they were certain would see little use.

While Ziva availed herself of the bathroom, Tim shucked his tie, jacket, and shoes, and Gibbs used the phone on the stand between the beds to call the front desk, inwardly grateful the woman spoke English, to have a meal sent up. The snack at the airport had been specifically that – a snack – and the pizzas they'd had back in the bullpen had been a _long_ time ago.

By chance, the three reconvened in the main room at the same time. Tony had moved his duffle to the floor next to the sofa and was sorting his purchases on the coffee table. Gibbs sat at the other end of the couch, with McGee and Ziva taking the pair of armchairs which bracketed it. "Dinner will be here in about half an hour," he said.

Tony nodded. "Thanks. Almost forgot about that."

"What's next, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked quietly.

Tony pulled the last item from its bag – the bottle of wine – and sat it on the table. He ran a hand through his hair. "Just like any other op," he replied, his eyes going over the stuff from S-Mart. _Damn. Forgot glasses._ He stood and walked into the kitchen, where he began examining the contents of the cupboards. "We need to make sure Dad's still in the area." He found a package of plastic cups, individually wrapped, in the tiny cabinet above the equally-miniscule sink, sitting next to the standard plastic ice-bucket. He took the cups and returned to the couch.

"Is it possible to get an explanation for all of this now?" Ziva asked, her voice also quieter than normal, a gesture of her hand indicating the results of their unplanned side-trip in Palermo.

Tony retrieved his pocket knife and set to removing shrink-wrap. "Like I said before, it's been a _long_ time since I did any of this. Too long, really. If I'd not buried it and ignored it, it would be easy – like driving a sports car down a deserted stretch of freeway. But, regardless of what Uncle Vinnie and I did back at HQ, this isn't going to go that easy."

"How so?" McGee asked the question.

Tony glanced at each of his teammates, realizing as he did so that none of them actually had the full story – Gibbs knew about the 'alternate religion' side of his childhood, Tim knew some of the little science could explain, and Ziva knew the least of all, in that she only knew he had certain talents most people didn't. He took a deep breath and shoved his concern for his dad aside once more.

_Dad and Gema and Uncle Vinnie and Aunt Fran may be my family by blood, but these people are my family by _choice_. They've been here for me through some of the worst shit I've ever lived through._ Methodically working his way through preparing his purchases, he started at the very beginning.

"Dad's side of the family is almost entirely gifted. Everything from the tiniest touches of precognition – that's seeing the future, by the way – to full-blown weatherkinesis." He smirked out of the corner of his eye at Tim. "Yeah, Probie, that means controlling the weather. One of my cousins in Palermo can do it." He used the corkscrew on his Swiss Army knife to open the wine. "In addition to that, the majority of Dad's side follow la vecchia religione. The Old Religion. Jupiter and Juno, Vesta, Ceres, Pluto, and Neptune and all the rest. We don't advertise it. Got out of the habit centuries ago, when being anything other than Catholic was a death-sentence. I don't know if we stuck to the old ways because of all the psychic crap or if by following the old ways we were simply in a position to take advantage of something the scientists I used to know said everyone is supposedly able to access with the right upbringing, but in either case, I learned how to control what I do through specific rituals."

Tony got back up again and headed for the kitchenette. He snagged the square tray on which the ice bucket rested and carried it to the rest of his odd collection. "Back when neo-paganism began to become more popular, the family quit vocally denying our faith, but…" he paused, searching for the right words. "Most of the country, particularly the upper middle-class and upper-class areas where we lived, are one breed of Christian or another. I knew from my mom's reaction to what Nonna taught me not to speak of it to anyone else, but Gema wasn't so lucky – she tended to say the wrong things at the wrong times." A small smile tugged on the corners of his lips. "The first time I ever broke a bone, I was protecting her from a group of kids who were teasing her about worshiping devils or some idiot thing – I was in second grade, she was in fourth. Broke three bones in my right hand accidentally punching a brick wall instead of Brian Taylor's fat mouth."

He paused again to remove his jacket and tie. "Anyway, getting back to the hows and whys." Tony unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up. "Earlier, back when you said I should get practicing," he focused briefly on Gibbs, "I did just that. I worked on apporting – it's how I packed."

_I suppose that would explain why things kept fading right in front of my eyes!_ Ziva thought, though it didn't show on her face.

"But," Tony continued, "it wasn't enough – I know that much right now. Essentially, Uncle Vinnie and I were trying to take something akin to a forest hiking trail and turn it into that four-lane freeway I mentioned. There wasn't, and isn't, enough time to actually get it that far. So I'm going to need the crutches I was taught with, and I'm likely not going to be much use for _anything_ once we're done."

"This gonna be dangerous, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked.

Tony shrugged and met his boss' steady gaze with one of his own. "Honestly? I don't know. I know pushing it too hard _can_ cause all sorts of problems, but…" He sighed and shrugged again. "I have no way of knowing if any of them will apply to me. If you forced me to give you a comparison, though, it _feels_ less dangerous than doing this in the conventional manner; more along the lines of evening rush hour than that half-hour after the bars close. But I simply can't say for sure."

The acting team leader then slid off the sofa and slowly nudged the coffee table closer to the cabinet containing an archaic television until he had a space of approximately five feet between the table and the couch. He used his pocket knife to open one of the plastic glasses and then to cut it to approximately half its original height. Handing it to Tim, he asked, "Would you fill that about halfway with water?" Tim nodded and took the cup. "This one, too, but as full as you can get it." One of the little ceramic bowls was also handed over.

Once Tim returned with the water, Tony thanked him. "How much time until dinner gets here?" he asked.

"About ten, fifteen minutes," Gibbs replied.

Tony nodded. "Ziva, turn off the lights."

While she got up to do so, Tony stuck one of the votives into the altered plastic glass and lit the wick with a match from the book he'd picked up at the front desk. Tim took the opportunity to move to the center cushion on the couch, so Tony's back wouldn't be facing him.

With the lights out, the room was pitch-black, save for the flickering light of the candle. Silently, Ziva returned to her seat, the armchair on Gibbs' side of the couch, and watched with curious eyes.

Tony forced himself to forget there was an audience. He arranged himself into a relatively comfortable 'Indian-style' position, and adjusted the candle and bowl of water so that the candle's flame was not reflected off the water's surface. Taking a deep breath, he held it for several heartbeats before letting it out slowly and forcing his muscles to relax. "Faccio appello alla terra, l'essenza di tutto ciò che è fisico," he repeated the incantation for the second time in as many days and tapped the side of the dish. (I call to the earth, the essence of all that is physical.)

Something began to gather in the room; a faint vibration, a high-pitched hum, the slightly acrid taste of ozone, a nearly-imperceptible shimmer – Gibbs, Tim, and Ziva all could sense it, though none of them could define it.

Tony leaned close to the surface of the small bowl. "Chiamo l'aria, l'essenza di tutto ciò che è immaginazione." He blew across the surface of the water, making it ripple slightly. (I call to the air, the essence of all that is imagination.)

The hum or vibration or visual waver like sun on hot pavement grew in strength. Each of the other three felt it in different ways and none even thought to breathe loudly, let alone to ask just what was going on.

Ziva's senses categorized it as a building of pressure, like the air before a violent storm, but with a vibrational hum just outside audibility that made the centers of her joints feel like they were filled with jelly and her ears stuffed with cotton.

Tony reached forward and passed the tips of his right index and middle finger through the flame of the candle. "Invito fuoco, l'essenza delle emozioni," he said, then dipped his fingers, lightly stained with the soot of the candle, into the dish. (I call on fire, essence of emotion.)

The almost-physical presence in the room grew again. McGee felt it as the combined flavors of copper and ozone, like lightning about to strike, along with a similar sensation of feeling as though his bones were trying to liquefy.

By now, though he was still aware of his teammates' presence, Tony had entered the state wherein nothing mattered but completing the ritual. "E chiamo ad acqua, essenza di ogni intuizione," he finished, moving his now-wet fingertips to his mouth before returning his hand to his lap. (I call to water, essence of all intuition.)

Gibbs saw/felt the heat-shimmer of the room surge and settle, small flashes of light and spots of shadow danced in his peripheral vision, but that same queasy sensation plaguing Tim and Ziva was playing havoc with his own skeleton. Besides, he wasn't sure he could look away from Tony now, even if his life or the lives of his team depended on it.

The Senior Field Agent focused on the water in the black bowl, pausing only a moment at its surface before it faded and the familiar swirl of color surfaced. "Show me my dad," he commanded.

The lights and shadows in Gibbs' peripheral vision swarmed, and his eyesight tunneled down to a fraction of what it was normally. But he could still see what was going on with DiNozzo.

So could McGee. And Ziva.

All three breathed sharply in at the precise same time. A gasp, but not one loud enough to hear.

Tony's eyes were glowing, actually _glowing_ like a firefly, a faint but still perceptible green.

It didn't last long, the glow, but all three of the mute witnesses to Tony's talent saw it. Only about half a minute after it faded, the indefinable presence sharing the room evaporated, shattered when Tony spoke. "He's still in the same room."

Before anyone could reply, a knock sounded on the door. "Room service!" filtered in, in a heavily-accented male voice.

Gibbs got up to answer the door while Tony doused the candle and moved it and the little dish back to their resting places on the coffee table. Everyone blinked at the sudden inrush of electric light when Gibbs hit the switch. "Why don't you get those blueprints, McGee?" Tony ordered, climbing to his feet.

Tim exchanged a look with Ziva, asking with his expression, 'Did that just happen?' She nodded in reply. Tony didn't notice, he was helping Gibbs and the room service waiter set out their dinners on the four-person table that sat between the kitchenette and living areas. McGee forced himself to move, reveling in the absence of that… that… _thing_ he'd been feeling, and hurried after the blueprints.

Ziva remained in her chair for the moment, trying to collect some semblance of rational thought. _That was… That was… Impossible. Something out of a bedtime story, or one of Tony's sillier movies. That does not happen in the real world. But it… I saw it. _I felt it._ I never want to feel anything like that again._ The waiter was currently asking if anything else was needed, and Ziva absently noted that she'd soon need to move. _I did not feel that… that… whatever it was when Gema used her talent. Why?_

Tim successfully located the blueprints from one of their cases of gear and took a seat at the table, across from Gibbs. Tony was showing the waiter out, tipping him with some of the euros he still had left over from the earlier shopping trip. Ziva stood and joined her boss and teammate at the table.

Identical expressions lingered on Gibbs' and McGee's faces. She was certain she wore one, too, one that simultaneously conveyed disbelief and shock and not more than a little awed wonder.

With an Italian 'Thank you, and have a good night,' Tony shut the door behind the waiter and turned to face his team. He had to smile inwardly at their mirrored expressions. _I have to wonder if this will stop the questions, or simply give them more to ask about._ His headache was back, throbbing in time to his pulse, but it was nowhere near the level it had been after his first scrying endeavor the night before. He ignored the headache and cleared his throat. "So…" he strode over to the table and examined its contents. "We got tomato bruschetta, fagioli al fiasco, filetti al balsamico, traditional salad, and schiacciata alla Fiorentina for dessert." He slid into the empty chair between Gibbs and McGee. "Dig in."

The meal was served family-style, and bit-by-bit Tony's enthusiasm for good food managed to shake a little of the remaining mood off of the other three. While eating, Tony examined the printouts of Macaluso's house and compared them to what he'd seen in the water dish.

"He's being held here," he said through a mouthful of half-chewed beef fillet. "It's either a study or library." Tony indicated a corner room on the house's second floor. The placement of the doors and windows in conjunction with the fireplace meant it could be no other area of the building. He swallowed and took a sip from his glass of water. "I didn't catch a glimpse of Macaluso, though, so I still can't confirm with absolute certainty that it _is_ him who's behind all this. Dad seems to be doing alright. Not great, not by any stretch of the definition, but he didn't look any worse off than he did before we left DC." He paused to wolf down a toast square spread with bruschetta. "I don't think he's getting any food or water, though, which means we should act fast."

"Seconded," Gibbs stated. "Just how do we go about it, though?"

That question was the first real indicator either Tim or Ziva had received that it was Tony who was undoubtedly in charge of this particular operation. They traded another meaningful look with one another, this time relaying their own surprise at the temporary shift in power.

Tony rubbed the back of his head with his left hand while stabbing a forkful of salad with his right. "Well, as much as I'd prefer we just grab Dad and run, there are other things to consider. We don't really have a whole lot of time to do traditional surveillance on this. We have no idea how many, if any, of the neighbors might be on Macaluso's payroll, if he has any guards on the premises, if Macaluso himself even knows what any of you look like, and so on." He paused to chew thoughtfully for a moment. "I'm sure I can apport Dad, but grabbing Macaluso, too… That might just be too much to handle right now. I'd have to see how I feel after getting Dad out of there."

Silence fell, punctuated only by the clink of silverware while the team thought. An idea began to surface from the depths of Tim's mind – the part where Thom E. Gemcity dwelt. "Tony…" McGee fell still, his gaze focused inwards. "Describe how your dad was being held. Was he just locked in? Tied up?"

"Tied to a chair, duct tape on his mouth," Tony replied. "What's got that hamster running now?"

"If you apportate –"

"Apport," Tony corrected with a sigh.

"Whatever," Tim blinked and waved the correction aside like an irritating mosquito. "If you apport your dad here, can you leave the ropes and tape and cuffs or whatever else is tying him up behind?"

Tony nodded. "Yeah. I could pull him here naked, leaving his clothes behind if I wanted to. Trust me, I _don't _want to."

Tim smiled a little and refocused on Tony. "Another question."

"Shoot." Tony sipped again from his glass.

"Can you apport something from one place to another without calling it to you? Say, making a window go from open to closed?"

One of Tony's eyebrows crept a little higher than the other. "Huh… I don't know – never tried it before, just like with sending things away. Never had any reason to try it."

"Do you think it's possible, though?"

Tony closed his eyes and mulled it over, thinking back to his lessons from childhood. Slowly, he nodded his head. "Yeah… I think so. Can't say for sure, but I _think_ so."

Tim grinned. "Then how about this…"

* * *

**A/N2:** This chapter seemed to write itself. I hope y'all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Thanks to all who take the time to read my deluded ramblings, and double-thanks to everyone who take the time to provide me with feedback, it is very much appreciated!


	7. When Worlds Collide

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** This tale has one, maybe two more chapters left in it. I enjoyed it enough, though, that I'm definitely considering writing more in this 'verse.

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter Seven: When Worlds Collide**

The table had been cleared of dishes – the dishes themselves placed on the floor outside the suite's door, awaiting pickup by the hotel staff – but now sported the receiving end of the surveillance equipment they'd brought along. The task of getting it ready out of the way, Tony took a moment to settle himself. He stood at the window, holding its thick drape aside, and looked out on the sunset. _Probie's plan is a good one, if we can pull it off._ But, as often as he kept repeating it to himself, he couldn't stop the worrying, nor could he keep that whip of guilt for having been the cause, however indirect, of his father's current predicament from lashing up out of the darkness. _It'll work. McGee might not know the hows and whys on what I do, but he's been asking smarter questions than those sadistic bastards back at the institute did. Hope he and Ziva don't run into anything nasty… _Ziva and McGee had just stepped out a few minutes earlier, their mission twofold: Bring back coffee and do a little on-the-ground reconnaissance of Macaluso's house, which stood only a handful of blocks from their hotel.

Gibbs was also standing, leaning against the kitchenette counter, watching his agent. He could tell, simply from the stiff way Tony was standing, that he was thinking over – or perhaps _over-thinking_ – the situation at hand. "DiNozzo."

Tony tore his gaze away from the dying rays of sunlight on the city and allowed the drape to fall closed once more. "Yeah, Boss?" He turned around and met Gibbs' eyes. He was suddenly struck by the realization that, aside from Gema, there was probably no one on earth he knew as well as he did the blue-eyed, silver-haired man standing across the room. Tony could read reassurance in the relaxed way Gibbs was leaning on the counter, confidence in the set of the older man's shoulders, encouragement from the not-quite-a-smile on his face, and a faint question lingering around his eyes. It all added up to something far more eloquent than mere words. It said, _Calm down._ It said, _Everything is gonna turn out okay on this._ And it said, _I trust you to get it right._ The question was probably the easiest bit to de-code. _If I think you can handle this, why don't you?_

Some of the tension Tony was feeling drained away. "Yeah, I know," he said, then strode over to the couch. "There wasn't anything I could've done to stop this, except maybe speak on Mike Macaluso's behalf when his parole hearing came up, but he wasn't ready to be let loose, not yet. It was just bad luck that had him killed in that fight, and Carlo's just trying to find someone to blame. I know it's not my fault, but I can't help but feel guilty about it."

Though his back was to Gibbs, the older man knew his second well enough to easily picture the expression on his face. Without line-of-sight, he knew silence wasn't an option. "Can't imagine Gema showing up has helped matters much."

Unseen by Gibbs, a tiny smile flashed on Tony's face. He let out a little huff of what might have passed for amusement, had he not still been extraordinarily tense. "Actually, I don't mind that Gema showed up. If she hadn't, this would be going down in an entirely different way – and who's to say that way would be any better?" He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "You guys finding out about the psychic crap?" his head shook a little and the hand on his neck dropped. His shoulders hitched up once. "Isn't the end-of-the-world scenario I'd been fearing."

"We know you too well, Tony," Gibbs admitted, his voice quiet, yet still laced through with a tendril of all the trust and fondness and friendship every member of the team had for the SFA. "Don't figure there's much you could admit to that would ever change the fact that we – all of us – have your six."

* * *

Ziva and Tim walked side-by-side, looking like nothing so much as a couple out for an evening stroll as they wound through Portoferraio. Their route was, by design, somewhat meandering, but designed to take them past the Macaluso residence both coming and going. Conversation was, also by design, kept to topics well away from Tony, NCIS, and their real purpose for being in Italy.

Their first walk-by of the house revealed what they'd already known – it was a Victorian-style home, very well-cared for, but not exactly what either of them had pictured as the base of operations for anything Mafia-related. The second walk-by had Ziva's sharp eyes picking out some of the modifications to the modest dwelling. _Steel doors, reinforced glass in the windows._ Tim spotted the numerous unobtrusive security cameras. The fading daylight, coupled with open drapes, revealed at least three people other than Tony's father within the house: Two men, one Macaluso himself, and a very beautiful blonde woman that appeared to be around Ziva's age.

Appearing to get into an intense discussion regarding the architecture of the house across the street from Macaluso's, Ziva planted a tiny camera on the side of a street-light, aimed at the Macaluso front door. Winding the 'discussion' to a 'natural' halt, they moved on.

Under the cover of full twilight – the one time of day when human visual acuity was at its lowest – they strolled around the block and hit paydirt. The house which abutted Macaluso's back yard was vacant, a sign indicating it was for sale. The pair, Ziva in the lead, slipped into the shadows and made their way around to the garden behind the house. Tall hedgerows formed the fence surrounding the vacant home, rather than the more common stone walls, which Tim chalked up to one more piece of good luck on their part. Huddled in the shadow provided by the bushes, they pushed aside some leafy branches and checked out the Macaluso residence once more.

"More security cameras," Tim whispered. "Can't tell if they're wireless or closed-circuit, though."

"Are they infra-red, McGee?" Ziva asked, her voice just as low as her partner's. She was more interested in determining whether or not there were any more people present.

He retrieved his binoculars from the inner pocket of his jacket and spent several minutes peering through them. "No," was his eventual reply. "And I don't see any motion-sensors to trigger lights, either."

More open drapes revealed the back of the house to be quiet and dark. Thus far, only the blonde, Macaluso, and the unnamed man they'd spotted through the front of the house seemed to be home. Ziva rummaged around in the 'purse' she had been carrying and withdrew two dime-sized bits of electronica. While she slipped through the hedge and followed the thick shadows it cast around the perimeter of Macaluso's yard, to where it met up with a rock wall that she followed closer to the house, Tim retrieved another tiny camera and scanned the yard he was in for a good place to put it. He grinned when he noticed the tree. The tree was slightly off-center, but tall enough the camera could be placed where it could easily see over the hedge.

It took a little more effort than he was used to employing to jump high enough to grab hold of the lowest limbs of it, but he managed. _I think I need to send my personal trainer a bonus. I couldn't have done this even two years ago, not without all his help!_ He swung himself onto the branch and set to securing the camera in a good spot.

Meanwhile, Ziva stuck to the shadows and crept slowly around Macaluso's yard. The landscaping was probably more beautiful in daylight, but it suited her just fine in the diminishing grey light that heralds nightfall – it provided more than adequate cover for her actions. She managed to get right up to the house itself. The first microphone was pressed into place in the corner of a window which looked in on the kitchen. She then slipped around the side of the house and made her way around to the lit windows of Macaluso's living room. Taking care to keep out of sight, the last microphone found itself pressed into a low corner of the lit window. She then carefully retraced her steps back to the hedgerow.

McGee was just lowering himself from the tree as she reappeared through the hedge. They wasted no time congratulating themselves, however. Ziva scooped up the 'purse' and the pair – keeping an eye out to make sure they were neither spotted nor followed – hurried back to the coffee shop down the street from their hotel.

Coffee in hand, they returned to the suite to find Gibbs monitoring the gear they'd just set up. The living area of the suite had been cleared of furniture, everything pushed against the walls. Tony was on his knees, a stick of chalk in hand, drawing on the wood floor. "Everything alright?" he asked, not looking up from his task.

"Yes," Ziva replied. "The cameras and microphones are up and running." She left McGee to hover over Gibbs shoulder and walked a little closer to see what Tony was doing.

"Good," Tony replied, adding to his 'artwork'.

A thin ring, approximately eight or nine feet across, drawn with the salt they'd gotten in Palermo marked a very visible boundary between Tony and the rest of the room. There were four small triangles chalked onto the floor already; Ziva's inner compass told her were situated precisely at the points of north, south, east, and west. She stood nearest the one on the east point, and moving the image in her mind so that she was mentally standing at the south, the triangles for west and north were point-down, those for east and south were point-up. The ones for east and north were further differentiated by having a horizontal line bisecting them, making them appear somewhat like a letter 'A' with an additional line connecting the 'feet' of the letter.

She glanced over to Gibbs and McGee. Tim had sat at the table and was currently working on getting his laptop up and running. Gibbs was wearing the surveillance headphones on one ear and listening intently to whatever might be coming through. Returning to watching Tony, she found he'd finished what he was doing and was looking down on the chalk design with his forehead furrowed.

Centered precisely within the circle of salt, white chalk markings stood out in stark relief against the dark wood of the floor. A seven-pointed star, with one point aiming directly at the upside-down 'A' triangle at due north, stretched across the center of a pair of concentric chalk circles that were about four feet across. The tips of the star blended with the inner ring. _Did he draw this freehand?_ Ziva wondered, then squelched her own surprise – Tony did, after all, do the vast majority of their crime-scene sketches freehand. Granted, a crime-scene sketch wasn't much more than stick-figure schematical diagramming, but she could easily see the confident accuracy portrayed in Tony's sketches reflected in the precise design now before her.

Between the inner chalk ring and the outer was a sentence, printed painstakingly in Italian, which repeated three times. _Sangue del__mio sangue__, __p__er gli dèi dei miei antenati, __io vi comando di__questo posto__._ Ziva mentally translated it without thinking. _Blood of my blood, by the gods of my ancestors, I command you to this place._ She saw some of the lines fade from Tony's forehead as he nodded to himself. "Update?" he called out, obviously directed at Gibbs and McGee.

Tim spoke first. "Surveillance is up and running as it should. I spotted a security system at Macaluso's place – I'm currently seeing if I can access it. Should know for sure in a few minutes, Tony."

"Macaluso's girlfriend apparently doesn't speak Italian, neither does his Chief of Security," Gibbs said, not looking away from the monitors in front of him. "He and the girl are heading out for a party shortly."

"Have to love it when the universe lines up and things go your way for a change," Tony muttered. Louder, he said, "Sounds like a good time to start, then. Let me know when they leave." Gibbs nodded in reply.

Tony's eyes fell on Ziva. "Give me a hand?" he asked quietly.

"What do you need?"

"Hand me the stuff off the coffee table as I ask for it," he replied. "First up, I need that glass of wine." Ziva carefully worked her way around the salt circle to where the coffee table now rested against the wall. Tony continued talking, but his tone was enough to tell her that he was doing so as much for his own benefit as hers. "Wine is for Jupiter, the King of the Gods." She handed him the plastic cup, filled halfway with red wine that was only a shade off from being the color of arterial blood. He sat the cup within the 'arm' of the star that was just to the right of the one which pointed north. "Next, organic – pure – spelt wheat for Ceres," Ziva handed him one of the little ceramic bowls mounded with a handful of grain, "ruler of, among other things, agriculture." The bowl was sat within the 'arm' that was next, clockwise, to the one containing the wine. "Now the water," Ziva handed over the dish she assumed to be the same one Tony had used earlier that evening, still full of clear water. "For Neptune, ruler of oceans, seas, rivers, lakes, and all else that is water." It was placed in the same spot on the next 'arm' of the star.

After a moment too long of silence, Ziva asked, "What next?"

Tony gave himself a little shake and pointed to the flickering candle in its makeshift holder. "The candle, for Vesta, ruler of hearth and home." Ziva handed it over and it joined the other items within the lines of the chalk design. "For Pluto, the coin. Ruler of riches and the Underworld." The medallion had already been separated from its gaudy mounting. Again, it was placed neatly within the 'arms' of the star. There were now two empty arms contained in the design.

"What next?" Ziva repeated.

Tony glanced up at her, his face mostly blank, but with the smallest of smiles lingering around the corners of his mouth and eyes. He didn't look away as his hand went to his shoulder-holster, and withdrew his Sig. He sat it in the middle of the 'arm' next to the one containing the golden coin reproduction. "For Juno, Queen of the Gods, protector of family and community."

There was now only one empty 'arm' remaining in the star's design. "What goes in the last one, Tony?"

"Nothing," he replied, climbing to his feet. His eyes shifted to look at his handiwork one more time. "That space is mine."

"Then why does nothing go there?" Ziva felt a bit of irrational frustration surface with the thought that Tony might believe himself to be 'nothing'.

"We stand next to, but ever separate from, the Gods." Tony's voice had the tone that told Ziva he was quoting from something, but couldn't determine precisely who or what. Tony took no notice of her reaction and continued, "It stands empty as a reminder of that."

Before Ziva could reply, Gibbs and Tim spoke up. "Macaluso and the girl just left," came from the former and, "I'm in!" came from the latter.

"Anyone but the security guard left in the house, McGee?" Tony asked, nimbly stepping over the design on the floor to join the other men at the table.

"Not that I can see. There aren't as many cameras inside, though."

Ziva joined her team and situated herself where she could see both the surveillance monitor and McGee's screen. The images showed the still-unnamed man – who was tall, muscular, and somewhere between Tony and Gibbs in age – doing a quick check of the house. Eventually, the lights were doused, save for a small glow from the left side of the house, as viewed through the front camera, which indicated the man had likely retreated to the basement.

"Looks like I'm up," Tony said. He took off his holster and sat it on the kitchenette counter, then toed off his shoes. The task completed, he took the time to meet the eyes of his team. Lingering on Tim's, he said, "I may not know the hows or whys behind all of this, but I do know how to use it. Once I start apporting something with a pulse," he moved his gaze to fall then on Ziva, "I _cannot_ be interrupted." He then met Gibbs' own gaze. "Else, Bad Shit happens."

The rest of the team nodded in unison. Tony once again met their eyes and returned their nods. Now that it was 'game time', the inner turmoil which had been haunting him ever since Gema turned up at NCIS HQ had quieted. Stress dissolved, replaced with determination for this to work.

He stepped back to the design that had taken him all day to remember, but only twenty minutes or so to draw. _Don't fuck this up, Tonio,_ he thought. Gibbs' voice spoke up from the back of his mind, _You won't._ The last shred of doubt that had been clinging to his brain gave way. He took a breath and murmured, his volume barely enough to carry to his team. "Mi legano a me questo giorno la rapidità del vento, la forza del mare, la durezza delle rocce, la resistenza della terra." (I bind to myself this day the swiftness of the wind, the power of the sea, the hardness of the rocks, the endurance of the earth.) He then took a deeper breath and stepped over the line of salt, taking his place between the empty 'arm' of the star and the symbol for earth at the circle's northern point.

Closing his eyes, the nearly-forgotten chant came to his lips with an ease that shouldn't have been possible. "Torna al fiume, torna al mare," took on nearly melodic overtones. (Back to the river, back to the sea.) "Torna al oceano, uno con te." Though he'd started speaking at a near-whisper, it was rapidly gaining in strength and volume. (Back to the ocean, one with thee.)

That same strange presence felt earlier when Tony had scryed on his father once again began to build within the room. All eyes, willing or not, locked on the sight of Tony standing within the design on the floor.

Tony's hands moved, dipping into his pants pockets. "Torna alla mia sangue, e indietro attraverso le mie vene," he chanted, pulling out his pocket-knife and a white handkerchief. (Back to my blood, and back through my veins.) With his eyes still closed, the knife flicked open. "Torna alla mia battito cardiaco, uno e la stessa," rumbled out of his mouth, the words echoing strangely through the ever-building heat-shimmer. (Back to my heartbeat, one and the same.) The knife moved quickly, light flickering off its blade as it sliced across the palm of Tony's left hand.

"Tornare alla foresta, di nuovo ai campi," the knife dissappeared back to its place while red welled from the cut. (Back to the forest, back to the fields.) "Torna al montagne, il suo corpo ha rivelato," the handkerchief wound around the cut, absorbing the blood and turning dark. (Back to the mountains, her body revealed.) The pressure-presence, heavier now than it had been at its peak before, grew thick, almost like the spike in humidity just before the clouds let loose.

"Torna alla mia ossa, torna alla mia pelle," Tim felt as though his teeth wanted to vibrate apart and his ears were ringing a shrill, high-pitched sound. (Back to my bones, back to my skin.) Ziva had trouble catching her breath, it felt as though something large and extraordinarily heavy, but soft, like a giant pillow, were resting on her chest. Gibbs felt, not glued, but _melded_ with his chair, and the light had taken on a surreal quality, like it wasn't quite real.

"Torna al mio spirito, il fuoco dentro," Tony finished and dropped the blood-stained handkerchief from his outstretched hand. (Back to my spirit, the fire within.)

Three things happened simultaneously: The handkerchief hit the precise center of the star on the floor, Tony opened his eyes, and the room felt as though it shifted ninety degrees out of true with reality.

Unknown to those involved, the witnesses to this shift were all thinking along the same lines. _Am I seeing this? Am I even here? The only thing that looks really _real_ is Tony._ Whereas his efforts in scrying had produced a firefly-like glow that briefly flashed through his eyes – disturbing, certainly, but also fascinating and kinda cool in its own right – what they were now seeing was so far out of any frame-of-reference that words couldn't convey the level of unease they felt.

Tony had yet to lower his left hand, the slash on the fleshy part under his thumb still bled, but sluggishly enough that his team knew it to be superficial and not something to worry about. "Come sopra, così sotto," Tony's voice now sounded like it was filtered through something somewhat more viscous than mere water. (As above, so below.) "Spirito e materia in una danza così lento." His right hand began to rise to join its partner. (Spirit and matter in a dance so slow.) "Come dentro, così fuori," the hand finally reached the same level as his other one. (As within, so without.) "Grande mistero che spirali dentro e fuori." His hands moved slightly, to a position which, had someone else been standing there, would have been resting on that person's shoulders. (Great mystery that spirals in and out.) "Gloria segreto, nascosto da nulla," his voice gained in intensity, though none of his team would have said it was possible. (Secret glory, hidden by nothing.) "Tre volte benedetto, chiamato tre volte, tre volte ha rivelato." Light vacated the space between his hands, merely reinforcing the impression that whatever it was they were seeing was simply something that _couldn't possibly exist_. (Thrice blessed, thrice called, thrice revealed.)

"Venite a me, Papà." The intensity didn't change, but a level of command entered Tony's voice; it was enough to make Ziva realize what he'd meant when he'd said _We stand next to, but ever separate from, the Gods_. (Come to me, Dad.) "Venite a me dal sangue, dalle ossa, dal pensiero, dalle emozioni che condividiamo." The lack of light grew, taking on a vague humanlike form, but still defied definition. It was more substantial than a shadow could ever hope to be, but lacked presence in a way which echoed the most deeply-buried nightmare beasts from childhood. (Come to me by blood, by bone, by thought, by the emotions we share.) "Vieni da me!" Tony shouted the command, and the man-shaped hole in existence was suddenly replaced by a very weary, rumpled, and just as obviously _relieved_ Anthony D. DiNozzo, Senior. (Come to me!)

A great noise, sounding most like the breaking of a tree branch as large as the world, crashed through the consciousness of the team, and just like that, everything was back to being _real_. Normal. Just as it should be.

"Hi, Dad," Tony managed to choke out, then collapsed against the man like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Junior!" Anthony exclaimed, catching his son, and wincing as stiff muscles protested the action.

The team leapt into action, hurrying over to the two men, but it was Ziva's eyes that noticed the only remaining evidence of Tony's meticulously-drawn design were the salt circle and empty dishes. Tony's gun also remained, but there was something different about it that she simply hadn't the time to investigate.

Working together, they moved their unconscious partner to the sofa. Senior took a moment to glance around the room and saw the now-broken circle of salt. He also saw the open bottle of wine sitting next to the package of cavallucci. While Gibbs and McGee were busy making sure Tony was reasonably comfortable, and Ziva was retrieving a blanket and pillow from the bedrooms, Anthony took the most needed action. He poured some of the wine into one of the two remaining plastic cups and unwrapped one of the anise-flavored cookies and brought them to Tony.

"Are you okay, Mr. DiNozzo?" McGee asked, catching the man's eyes over the back of the sofa.

"Yeah," he replied kneeling next to his son. Not even Gibbs was enough of a bastard to stand between them – he moved to a similar position at the end of the couch where Tony's head rested. "Good enough. Sore. Hungry. Want a shower and about three days in bed, but I'm fine." Anthony sat the cup of wine down on the floor as Ziva reappeared with a pillow and folded blanket. Gibbs helped Tim reposition Tony on the pillow, while Ziva covered him to his waist with the blanket. Senior simply waited until they were done. Once they'd backed off a little, he shook his son's shoulder. "Come on, Junior," he said. "Wake up. You aren't finished yet."

Tony slowly peeled his eyes open. He didn't have a headache, that was far too mild a term for something that encompassed his entire body and made him feel like there was glass in his joints, cotton in his ears and eyes, and mold in his mouth. "Dad," he croaked, his voice sounding just as pain-riddled as the rest of him felt.

"Gotta finish, Junior," Anthony repeated. He handed Tony the unwrapped cavallucci. Tony nodded, knowing he needed to eat and drink something to re-center himself in reality. Once the backlash faded, he'd actually work on getting a real meal, but the cookie was enough to remind his body what it meant to _be_ a body. He slowly nibbled on it, his hand shaking with exertion. His dad held the cup of wine to his lips and he drank.

Gibbs didn't move from his post, but he locked eyes with Ziva and McGee – they both nodded once and headed to the electronics on the table. Just because Tony's dad was safe didn't mean the work was over. Though most who knew him wouldn't say so, Gibbs knew how to be patient, so it didn't bother him to wait. In fact, seeing Senior focusing on his son actually managed to clarify a few things in Gibbs' mind. _They might not see eye-to-eye on a whole lot of stuff, and I doubt I will ever truly like the man, but they really are family._ It still didn't explain why Senior had never showed, never even called, when Tony had been fighting the plague, but a little of the contempt Gibbs had previously carried for the man managed to fade.

* * *

**A/N2:** Once again, if any of you know a better way for me to phrase the Italian bits, please let me know! I hope this chapter makes as much sense as it did in my head - I don't feel that I got the important part quite right. Sigh, the insecurities of being a writer...

Don't hesitate to let me know what you thought. Thanks in advance.


	8. Winding Down

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Just a couple of reminders: This story is just about done and it started up only a couple of days after the conclusion of the events of _Broken Arrow_ (episode 8.07).

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter Eight: Winding Down**

By the time the cookie and wine were nothing more than crumbs and an empty cup, Tony felt a little better. _Still feel like I was hit by a bus, but that will fade eventually… I hope_. His hands had managed to stop shaking, at least. Pushing aside the bone-deep ache that throbbed in time to his heartbeat, he slowly sat up.

Anthony DiNozzo, Senior knew what backlash felt like; overuse of a talent, or pushing it too hard, too fast, tended to make a person feel as though their bones had been burned to ash, while their muscles tied themselves into shapes better left to Asian paper art, and nerves would feel as though they'd been kicked into hyperdrive. He further knew that his son hadn't touched his talents in _years_, and as a result _had_ to be enduring the single worst case of backlash ever suffered in their family. "Junior –"

Tony met his father's eyes and gave a tiny shake of his head. "Not done yet, Dad," he said, the words crashing through his brain with all the subtlety of the proverbial bull in a china shop.

Senior's eyebrows crept closer to one another, lines deepened on his forehead, and a flash of anger – though at whom or what not even he could say – briefly flitted through his eyes. "Nonsense, Junior. You need to rest."

Seeing blatant concern on his father's face, Tony forcibly pushed aside the backlash-pain that had him wishing desperately for a cool, dark place in which to hide. He straightened his posture. "And I will," he said. "When this is _done_." He tore his eyes from his dad and glanced over at Tim and Ziva. "Any updates?"

"No," McGee replied. "The security guy –"

"Anders," Senior supplied the name.

Tim made no notice he'd heard it, and continued as though he'd not been interrupted, "– is still in the basement."

"Does he look like he's going anywhere?" Tony asked.

Tim shook his head. "Doesn't seem that way."

"Good," Tony shifted a little to face Ziva. "You manage to get through to your Interpol contacts?"

She nodded, her eyes flickering among Senior, Gibbs, and Tony. "They are ready to go whenever you say."

Even though it set off a fire-alarm within his skull, with a side of exploding neck-nerves just to make it interesting, Tony nodded. "Soon," he said, then readjusted himself to face Gibbs, who was still kneeling at the end of the sofa.

Tony's dad watched as his son and Gibbs simply exchanged a short series of indecipherable expressions – a twitch of an eyebrow, a narrowing of eyes, a barely-there shake of a head, a tired smile – and had to wonder what they were saying to one another. Another thought, hidden by his curiosity at what was being said, began to take shape; it consisted of equal parts of understanding that Tony and his boss weren't just coworkers and irrational jealousy that he had been, on some level, _replaced_. Coating this embryonic thought was the absolute certainty that he had no one to blame but himself. But Senior wasn't even aware of the thought yet, too much had happened recently for him to have the chance to acknowledge it and form it into words.

Unaware of what was going on in his dad's mind, Tony simply saw the question on his boss' face – _You _sure_ you're okay to finish this?_ – and gave himself a quick internal assessment. _Yeah. I know I probably look like crap, Boss, and I feel worse, but I can see this through to the end._ A tiny shake of Gibbs' head said more than the man himself ever had, telling Tony in that one, little gesture that though Gibbs would wish otherwise, he trusted Tony to be telling the truth in being able to finish what he'd started, that he knew better than to argue at this point, and that – lead agent for this scheme or no – Tony was _going_ to damn well _rest_ when it was over. Tony's tired smile agreed. Out loud, he simply said, "Yeah. Three days."

"A week," Gibbs countered.

"A week?" Tony's expression morphed into one that was better suited to chewing on lemon rind. "Come on – that's overkill."

Gibbs simply leveled a hard stare at Tony as he climbed to his feet. "Not up for negotiation," he said, breaking the eye-contact and turning to the empty area of the floor where Tony's chalk diagram had been.

While Gibbs' back was turned, picking the dishes and Tony's gun up off of the floor, Senior saw the one expression on his son's face that hadn't changed since he'd been a little kid. It was the one that said he'd decided to dig his heels in and get his own way, come hell or high water. _It's good to see _some_ things don't change._ "So, what's left to do?" he asked, making sure to keep his voice low, while he joined his son in sitting on the sofa.

Tony met his father's eyes and a smile unlike any other Senior had ever seen broke onto his face. His initial reaction was to label it 'evil' or 'bloodthirsty'. "We make sure Macaluso has a long, long, _long_ time to think about why messing with us is a phenomenally _bad_ plan." Had Senior bothered to look, he would have seen similar expressions on Ziva's and McGee's faces.

After depositing empty bowls onto the coffee table, Gibbs turned and handed Tony his Sig. Unlike Ziva, Gibbs had immediately spotted how the weapon had changed: It was no longer the basic black of his own pistol, but a metallic blue so dark that most would need to have Tony's gun right next to an unchanged one to see any difference at all, and now sported a tiny engraving, just below and beside the safety, of what appeared to be a stick-figure dandelion – a six-line asterisk wherein the bottom-most line was slightly longer, and bisected by a short, horizontal line. Tony took the gun and also noticed its new appearance.

Senior watched his son run a thumb over the small engraving and had to repress a smile. "Always did say you were Hers, Junior."

Tony glanced at his dad. "I know, Dad," he said, then slowly got to his feet. "I know," he repeated. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. "Okay," he turned to face Tim and Ziva. "Keep an eye on things, guys. Let me know when Macaluso returns, and get things set up." He walked over to where his shoulder holster was sitting on the kitchenette counter and slid his gun into its place. "Gibbs? Fill Dad in on what's going on, would ya?" Slowly, the backlash was starting to fade, replaced with a level of tiredness that could only be compared to coming out from under a general anesthetic and a growling, echoingly empty hunger.

Gibbs nodded and indicated for Senior to follow him. "What's going on, Junior?" Senior tried to stall, watching as his son slipped his holster into place.

"Just talk with Gibbs, Dad," Tony replied, ducking under the level of the island counter which separated the kitchenette from the dining area. Unseen by his dad, he was putting his shoes back on. "I'll be back in a few minutes." With his shoes back on his feet, Tony grabbed his jacket and paused next to the coffee table long enough to snag another cavallucci. He was chewing the cookie and out the door before Senior could reply.

"Where…" Senior shook his head. "No, he's gone after food." He stood and looked at Gibbs.

His son's boss was leaning on the doorway to one of the suite's bedrooms. It was enough to make Anthony realize he really needed a shower and a change of clothes. _Too bad my suitcase is probably still at the airport. I have to wonder what Sam is making of my sudden disappearance._ He took a couple of steps in Gibbs' direction and the other man, satisfied that he was 'following orders', ducked into the room. By the time Anthony joined him, Gibbs was digging through a small duffle bag. "You need a doctor?" he asked without looking up.

Senior shook his head and caught sight of the movement in a mirror over the room's dresser. Aside from needing cleaned up, and the sad state of his once-expensive suit, the only evidence of his recent capture was an impressive bruise on the left side of his jaw. He reached up and gingerly touched it. It hurt, but was just a bruise. There weren't any loose teeth and there was no mistaking the pain of a broken jawbone. "No. Had worse from my brothers."

Gibbs accepted him at his word and tossed the man a pair of sweatpants. "Bathroom's through there."

Anthony caught the sweats and sat them on the surface of the dresser. "Thanks, Gibbs." He let out a small chuckle. "Have to say, this 'talk' is going better than our last few. Maybe it's just that it's not in an interrogation room this time."

"Could be," Gibbs allowed. "But my money's more on the fact that you've finally caught a glimpse of what your son goes through."

"He's been kidnapped before?" Senior knew the answer before seeing the affirmative on Gibbs' reflection in the mirror. Anthony wilted a little. "He doesn't tell me about it, Gibbs. Just the movie-side – the action, the girls. He never tells me about when he gets hurt."

"Doesn't want you to worry," Gibbs replied. He knew where his SFA was coming from – he rarely told Jackson anything about the dangerous side of his own life, either.

"I know. He's a good kid." Senior turned around to face Gibbs directly.

Gibbs just nodded. "He is."

* * *

Tony managed to make it to the small boutique just ten minutes prior to closing-time. It only took him five minutes to make his purchases, wincing at the hit his credit-card took, before he headed to the café across the street and down the block from the hotel. Lines were longer there, and it was nearly an hour before he had a large bag of sandwiches, pastries, and a cardboard six-pack of fresh coffees for everyone.

On returning to the suite, he saw that the salt had been swept up and the furniture returned to their original places. "Did I miss anything?" he asked, setting the food on the counter, but hanging on to the sack and garment-bag from the boutique.

"No," McGee answered, receiving the fresh cup of coffee from his teammate. "Everything's still quiet. Macaluso's not returned yet."

Tony handed Ziva her own refill. "Thanks for cleaning up."

"It was not a problem, Tony," she replied.

"How's my dad doing?"

Ziva shrugged. "I assume he is fine – I heard the shower not long after you left, but he and Gibbs are still talking."

Unable to resist the savory scents coming from the bag of food, Tony dug into it and came up with a sandwich. He ripped the paper wrapper off with the same level of enthusiasm which small children greeted presents. "This is either very good," he muttered, then tore a chunk of sandwich away with his teeth, "or very bad." The words were muffled, but still recognizable.

"Didn't you just have dinner with the rest of us?" Tim asked, both disgusted and amused at Tony's actions.

Tony nodded and chewed hastily. "Yeah," he swallowed and chased it with a drink from his own coffee. "But I burned it all off – and then some – in getting Dad here." He quickly wolfed down the remainder of his sandwich. "I got some pastries, too, if you're interested," he said while heading over to his duffle. His bag was now sitting on the end of the couch, between the arm and the pillow that had been brought out earlier. He rummaged in it with one hand for a moment before pulling out the small red leather case in which he kept his travel-toiletries. He then returned to the kitchen area, picked up the drink carrier and grabbed a second sandwich from the depths of the bag, then headed over to the closed door to the room Gibbs had claimed.

Gibbs opened the door before Tony had the chance to knock. Taking the drink carrier and the wrapped sandwich, he stepped aside. Anthony looked up from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed and smiled as Tony handed him the bags from the boutique. "Think I remembered everything," Tony said. "If not, you'll have to deal – they closed up shop just as I left."

"Don't worry about it, Junior," his dad replied. "I'm sure you did what you could."

A tiny tendril of pride wound its way around Tony's heart and lent a little more strength to his spine. Most of the pain he'd been feeling earlier managed to fade, but a headache was still thudding with each movement. He ignored it, though, in favor of watching his dad rummage through the sack, ignoring the garment-bag for now. His dad was currently wearing a pair of Gibbs' old sweatpants, with a towel draped around his shoulders, hair still a little damp from his shower. The lack of a shirt revealed that the bruise on the man's jaw wasn't the only one – there were the distinct bruises around his forearms that came from having been tied down. "You don't need a doctor, do you?" he asked, worried that the visible bruises might not be telling the whole story.

As Senior shook his head and said, "No, I'm fine," Tony caught a motion from Gibbs out of the corner of his eye. With a plasticy rattle, a bottle of ibuprofen hit him in the chest and landed on the bed. Tony picked it up and looked at his boss. Gibbs expression clearly stated that he obviously didn't feel as well as he was trying to display. With a shrug, Tony opened the bottle and dry-swallowed two of the pills, then tossed it back to Gibbs.

"Did Gibbs fill you in?" Tony asked, returning his attention to his dad.

"Yeah, he did." Senior laid out the boxers and undershirt Tony had bought for him.

"Good. Any questions on it?" Anthony shook his head and added the pair of blue-and-white striped pajamas to the small pile. "You do realize," Tony stressed, "how important it is to stick to the story we came up with, right?"

Senior grinned at his son. "Of course I do. And I don't have a problem with it. I might not have been there personally, but Vinnie told me what you and Gema went through. The _last_ thing I want is for you to go through all that again, which is what would happen if word got out about the things we can do." He laughed, the sound both bitter and genuine. "To say nothing of the fact that I've no desire whatsoever to join you in making like a lab-rat."

Tony echoed his father's laugh. "And it helps, I'm sure, that you're painted in such a… _resourceful_ light." He handed his dad the leather toiletries case. "There's a new toothbrush in there."

"Yeah, it does," Senior said as he took the case. "And thanks." He rested his eyes on his son, trying to silently convey that he meant thanks for more than just the toothbrush.

Tony understood what his dad meant and nodded. "Any time."

* * *

Twelve hours later, the entire team was back on the Gulfstream G100, heading back to DC. Ziva had given up her bed so that Senior could sleep, not that it was much of a sacrifice – she'd been far too busy coordinating the arrest of Carlo Macaluso, Paul Anders, and Mercedes Polito to worry about sleep – and as a result was snoring away on the jet's couch. Tim hadn't fared much better and was sleeping in one of the recliners. Senior sat, staring out a window, in one of the standard airline seats the plane boasted, a newspaper forgotten in one hand, while Tony slumbered in the other recliner. Gibbs, true to his word, was sitting at the table, working on the paperwork this misadventure had generated.

The official story was a masterful blend of truth and fiction, courtesy of one Thom E. Gemcity. _It's no wonder,_ Gibbs thought while reading through the temporary files to ensure they all supported not just one another, but what the Interpol forensics would find at Macaluso's house, _that McGee managed a best-seller. I wonder if he ever finished his second book?_ He typed in a small correction in Ziva's report before moving on.

What no one not already in the know would be told about the rescue of Anthony D. DiNozzo, Senior was that he'd been taken from the airport in Pisa, while he and Samir Alami had been en route to a working vacation in Cairo – truth. NCIS became aware of the situation when Tony tried to call his father – also truth. The details on how they tracked down where Macaluso was holding Senior were only tweaked slightly; McGee's technowizardry and Ziva's international contacts were all that were mentioned in locating Senior's phone and Macaluso's house on Elba. The part about Tim and Ziva planting surveillance gear remained unchanged, but added a fictional bit of Tony being there, too.

The bullshit-factor increased when the report came to how Senior got away from Macaluso's house. Instead of what had actually happened, Senior's statement indicated that he'd gotten a glimpse of his son through the windows of the library in which he'd been kept. A grain of truth – that Macaluso had been intending on killing both DiNozzos on the successful transfer of Junior's money and his arrival in Italy – was embellished a tad, and Senior's statement went on to describe how, knowing this, he couldn't allow it to happen, and so had managed to work the ropes holding him loose. He then, in the statement, escaped through the window.

One small detail which nobody could think of a way to explain had to do with that window. Never having used his talents to simply move something from one position to another, Tony had somehow managed to get the wood surrounding the pane of glass in said window to _merge_ with the wood of the frame; it was now forever stuck in an 'open' position. Gibbs figured it didn't much matter – he'd let the forensic techs try to figure it out.

On escaping through the window, Senior's report further detailed shadowing Tim, Ziva, and McGee back to the hotel. After arriving there, Interpol was then contacted regarding the situation and sent in to arrest Macaluso and his cohorts.

All plausible, all believable, and save for that damn window, all completely normal and expected for this type of situation.

It was still a bitch making sure all the timelines matched up properly, though.

While Gibbs was focused on his paperwork, Tony's dad was lost in thought. _I never did like it much that Junior and I are so different. Money always seemed to equal security to me, but Junior… What I said to him is true. He's _always_ been Juno's, one of her warrior-protectors, keeping things safe for family and community. Every time we moved when he was a kid, he never did complain – he would have, if it was Vesta who ruled his heart. No, it wasn't the house itself he looked after, but the _people_. I'm beginning to realize, I think, just what it is that makes him tick._

He watched as the land beneath the plane gave way to the cool blues and greens of the Mediterranean. _But no. I think I've always known. Ever since Alice died… Something hardened in our boy, Alice. Losing you, he lost more than just his mom, he lost _family_, and he's been fighting to keep from losing any more ever since. Why didn't I see it before this?_ He tore his gaze from the window and looked at his sleeping son. Despite the way Tony had eaten his way through the last twelve hours, he was still noticeably thinner than he was when he and Senior had parted ways not even a full week earlier. Dark shadows underscored his fluttering eyelashes and Anthony spared a moment to wonder what dreams his son was experiencing. _I'm going to do better, Junior. I know my promises haven't meant all that much before, but damn it! I _am_ going to do better. You deserve it._

The glimmer of an idea began to take shape within the recesses of Anthony's mind. He nodded to himself. _That just might work._ He sat aside the world news section of yesterday's DC paper and retrieved the real estate listings. _Monica will raise hell for me moving again, but she'll live with it._ Monica had been the head of his household staff for nearing twenty years. _Hey, wait a minute… Doesn't her daughter live in Maryland? _A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. _Yeah, she does. Maybe I won't have to deal with the bitching and moaning this time around._

Before succumbing to sleep himself, Tony's dad spent the better part of three hours making mental lists of what needed done in order to finalize his plans.

* * *

**A/N2:** In re-watching the three episodes which showcase Anthony D. DiNozzo, Senior (_Flesh and Blood_ 7.12,_ Broken Arrow_ 8.07,and _Sins of the Father_ 9.10), I noticed something – Jimmy was absent in each episode. I don't know if I'll ever do anything with this observation, but I thought I'd point it out.

All that remains for this is the epilogue. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it!


	9. Family

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Though I picked a real block of land for writing this chapter, I hope everyone realizes that the contents of this particular piece of real estate are simply figments of my imagination (based on what little info I could surmise from seeing rooftops in Google Earth) – the only bit about what's _really_ there is the church, as claimed by Google Maps, but even in that instance, I've taken liberties.

And I borrowed 'Tom' from _When it Rains_ to make an appearance in this chapter. I hope I don't really have to say this, but other than the character being the same, this fic has _nothing _to do with that one!

Oh, one last thing – I mention a real person in this chapter (David Manners), but he is used fictitiously in this story (and since he died in 1998, I obviously am using his name without permission). No offense is intended and I sincerely hope none is received.

* * *

**Rule Four**

_The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself.  
Second best? Tell one other person, if you must.  
There is no third best._

**Chapter Nine: Family**

Returning to DC was, in a word, a relief. Abby met them at the airport with Vinnie and Gema DiNozzo. Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva piled into Abby's hearse, while Senior and Tim followed in Tony's car, which Gema drove.

Having been subjected to the single longest lecture of his life – it had started up during the last five hundred miles of the trip, Vinnie using their mental bond to its utmost – Anthony was in no mood to continue it out loud, particularly not in the rapid-fire Italian which Vincenzo was using. The fact that Gema was also throwing her two cents in every five seconds was also something that grated. So, as they pulled into traffic behind the fifties-style hearse, Senior glanced at the uncomfortably clueless expression on McGee's face, gave the boy an apologetic shrug, and let out a piercing whistle.

In the sudden silence, Anthony said, "Your opinions on the matter are duly noted, Vinnie, and you can take most of them and shove them right back up your ass." Gema snorted in amusement at that. "And," Senior turned his ire on his niece, "as for you, missy, I tolerate it from my brother, but if you think I'm going to put up with the disrespect from _you_, just let me remind you that you're _never_ too old for a spanking!"

Tim chewed frantically on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He almost missed the "Sorry, sir," that Gema squeaked out.

_Careful there, Tony. She's not yours to spank._ Vinnie's mental voice was identical to his actual voice.

_I know, Vinnie, but – damn it all to hell and back! This has been a long couple of days! The last thing I need or want right now are lectures._ Anthony made sure that his exasperation-level couldn't be mistaken. "Besides," he nudged Tim, who was sitting beside him in the back seat, "it isn't precisely fair to McGee here."

It took Tim a second to remember that Senior and his twin could communicate telepathically. _I wonder if it's in English or Italian?_ he mused. He held his hands up in a 'wait a second' gesture. "No, don't worry about me being here," he said. "If you guys want to talk, it's really none of my business."

"It's rude," Senior stated, glaring between the front seats at his brother. "And one thing I do not tolerate well is rudeness." He looked at his seatmate and smiled a little at him. "It's one thing to be rough with family, either in word or deed, but it's quite another for outsiders to witness it. With that said, my apologies for my crass language of a moment ago."

"Don't worry about it," Tim replied, thinking on his own interactions with family, particularly Sarah. "I understand where you're coming from, Mr. DiNozzo."

"Call me 'Tony', please." Senior's smile settled from apologetic to content. "'Mr. DiNozzo' was our father," he made a gesture to include his brother in the statement.

Vinnie's mental voice interrupted, _'__Signore DiNozzo', you mean._

_Quit it,_ Anthony shot back. _He knows what I meant._

Unaware of the mental byplay, Tim simply shook his head. "Sorry, but there's only ever going to be one 'Tony' in my mind."

"I suppose I can understand that," Senior allowed. "A while back, not long after you started working with Junior," he slowly started engaging his own talent, just enough to make sure he had Tim's undivided attention, "he told me you were like 'the little brother Mom said would ruin her figure'." He mimicked his son's intonations perfectly and got precisely the reaction out of Tim that he'd been aiming for: embarrassed amusement.

_Just what the hell are you doing, oh fratello mio?_ (Brother of mine.) Suspicion wrapped the mental voice.

_Just hold your damn horses, Vinnie – I'm working up to it. You still have those bonds I told you to hang on to?_ Out loud, Senior patted Tim's arm. "So it's not surprising there's only one 'Tony' in your mind. In that case, why don't you call me 'Mr. D'? It's what most of the kids who work for me use."

_Yeah, they're still in the safe at the shop. But why are you asking about them now? I thought you had me hide them for Tonio, as a just-in-case measure._ Vinnie's suspicion was now outright curiosity, and Anthony could tell it was driving his brother slightly nuts.

"I can do that," Tim replied with a small smile. It faded slightly, and then he asked, "Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I've been curious about it for a while now."

"Anybody can always ask me anything," Senior assured the young man. "I might refuse to answer, but I'll always listen to the question." He incrementally increased the level of his own talent he was using. Sure, he could accomplish his goals without McGee's help, but it would be ever so much smoother if he had an 'inside man', so-to-speak. To forestall any further interruptions from his twin, he sent a mental explanation to Vinnie.

"You run one of the most successful businesses – particularly given the current economy – that I've ever seen…" Tim trailed off, a little unsure as to how to phrase the actual question in a way which wouldn't insult his friend's father.

"And you're wondering why, personally, I'm broke?" Anthony patted Tim's arm again in a reassuring manner. Tim nodded. "It all goes back to the fact that DiNozzo Enterprizes, LTD. specializes in retirement packages, McGee. I'm not about to mess around with people's _futures_, so the firm sticks to 'sure things'. Well," he shrugged, "as sure of a thing as you can get in the investment world. Long-shots are what personal money is for, and I backed the wrong side last time." He gave Tim a sheepish expression. "Our father was many things, but one thing he was was a great teacher," Vincenzo snorted at that, but otherwise remained quiet, both vocally and mentally. Anthony ignored him. "One of the biggest things he ever taught me was that you can't win big unless you were willing to risk it all."

Tim nodded, comprehension finally seeping in. "I get it," he said. "And it makes a lot more sense now."

Traffic on the freeway slowed to a crawl, construction workers rushing to make the last of the season's repairs before winter brought everything to a screeching halt. Senior was grateful, it would give him more time without having to come up with an excuse. "Glad I could be of service," he said. "Tell me," he kicked his talent up another notch, "does my son still live in that run-down flat in Anacostia?"

Tim nodded, briefly wondering why Senior was asking. It must have shown on his face, because 'Mr. D' continued, "The last time he moved, I didn't find out until the Post Office quit forwarding his mail from the place he had in Baltimore. The building as much of a pit as it was the last time I saw it?"

Tim shrugged, "I don't know when the last time you went to Tony's was, but it hasn't changed, other than the elevator quit working completely last winter." He shifted his position a little, so that he was sitting in a way that he could face Tony's dad without developing a crick in his neck. "Why?"

Senior rubbed a hand on the back of his neck – a gesture not unlike one Tony used when he was uncomfortable or thinking hard. "Well… Tim – may I call you Tim?" Tim nodded. "Tim, I want to do something nice for Junior, but I don't want him to get the wrong impression."

"So you want my advice on it." It wasn't a question.

Senior smiled brightly. "Junior said you were quick!"

Tim rolled his eyes, suddenly aware that he was being played. "Cut to the chase, sir, I'm not one of your rich buddies in need of buttering up."

Tony's dad laughed out loud; it was identical to Tony's laugh when he found something surprisingly funny. "Okay, then." He 'turned off' his talent. "Here's what I want to do…"

* * *

It wasn't as easy as Mr. D and Tim had initially assumed, and they wound up having to bring Ziva in on the plan. Ziva accidentally let something slip while having lunch with Abby one afternoon in mid-January, and of course the goth wanted in on it, too. Palmer tripped across The Plan while Tim, Ziva, and Abby were discussing it in her lab late one evening in March, and was brought in. It nearly goes without saying that Ducky learned of it shortly thereafter. He informed Gibbs, according to schedule, in early April. And though he personally didn't much care for Tony's dad, Gibbs agreed to do his part with little complaining – and a few good suggestions, if Senior were totally honest.

All the sneaking around was wedged in and among cases and long sessions with McGee and Abby learning about Tony's gifts (not to mention pushing him to use them more often and coming up with new ways in which they could be applied to their job) and Senior actually living up to his promise of keeping in touch. All of which were partially responsible for keeping Tony off the scent, and so, when the planning was done, Tony was caught by surprise. He came home one night, a little sore from having tackled a fleeing suspect, to find an official notice from the Anacostia Zoning Commission stating that his neighborhood – specifically, his block and the two just north of it – was being re-zoned, and his building was scheduled for demolition on June first. He had thirty days to find someplace else to live.

Despite his frustration, not to mention more than a little digging, all Tony was able to come up with during that month was that a company by the name of 'January Estates' had purchased the entire area that was being 'rezoned' with the intention of leveling everything and building a new residential complex. The only upside, in Tony's mind, was the fact that 'January Estates' had promised first-choice to any current residents of the area which contained not just Tony's apartment building, but two others, five houses, and a mostly-deserted Episcopal church which had definitely seen better days. From the gossip of his neighbors, however, the only ones seriously considering the offer was Mrs. Gellert – an elderly woman who lived on the first floor of Tony's building – and Tom, the building's doorman.

Gibbs offered Tony the use of his spare room when the approaching deadline was only days away and the SFA had yet – by design, though he'd not known it at the time – to locate a new apartment. The day Tony's old apartment was leveled, Tony took the day off to watch. He came to work the following day, wearing his best Armani suit, and claimed to be 'in mourning' for his apartment. It took the combined efforts of Gibbs, Ziva, Tim, Ducky, _and_ Palmer to keep Abby from blabbing too soon. Luckily, a complicated case involving multiple murders, the CIA, and a stolen encryption key landed in the MCRT's hands that very afternoon, and everyone, even Tony, became too busy to think about personal matters much.

Even staying in Arlington, at Gibbs' place, Tony still drove past his old place at least twice a week. All of the old buildings were completely erased within two weeks, and new buildings were going up fast. Though he resented being forced to move, when the exterior of the new buildings started to become clear, Tony appreciated the 1920s-style art-deco architecture. From the plans he'd seen online, back when he was trying to find a way to halt all this, he knew the buildings were going to be home to high-rent condos, each sporting at least three bedrooms and three thousand feet of living space. The plans had also detailed a secure parking facility, with resident storage units on the upper floors, a fitness center and pool, and expanses of park-like manicured lawns. A tasteful stone and iron fence surrounded the developing area, something which hadn't been in the original plans, but which Tony wholeheartedly approved of.

Every day he drove by, it edged closer and closer to completion.

And every day, Tony resolved to be out of Gibbs' spare room by the end of the week.

But fate – admittedly, with help – had other plans. Vance was brought in on one little, but vital, piece just at the beginning of June. All he'd needed to do was sign his name on a couple of forms. And with how hard the MCRT worked, he was glad to do so.

And so, when Tony's birthday finally rolled around, the final step for The Plan was put into motion.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011 dawned beautifully clear and was one of those rare summer days that aren't too hot or too humid to be any use at all. Since managing to close their last case on Monday, Vance had the team working on myriad different things. McGee was supposedly helping Cybercrimes crack some sort of uber-code, Ziva was giving defense lessons to the latest crop of probationary agents, and Gibbs had been holed up in MTAC all morning. Tony was spending his thirty-ninth birthday alternatively wading through cold cases and staring out the window at the perfect summer day, wishing he was out enjoying it instead of being tied to his desk. He hoped that no cases would come in so that they could get out at a reasonable hour – despite having had his request for the day off denied, he had hope yet that the evening might still be salvageable.

By the time lunch rolled around, he began to get the sense that something was 'off'. _Abby usually manages to come up and wish me a happy birthday,_ he thought, slowly closing the file he'd been reading. _At least, the years I'm stuck here for it._ He slid the folder back into the box he'd brought up for storage. He sighed a little. _Maybe she just lost track of the days._ He reached for the collection of take-out menus stuck to the side of his filing cabinet with a magnetic clip and started paging through them. _Pizza? Chinese? Subs?_ Each was studied for a moment before shuffled to the back of the stack. He'd just settled on Greek for lunch when hands fell over his eyes.

"Guess who!"

"Hey, Abs. Want to go for lunch with me?"

The hands disappeared and Abby moved around the cubicle wall to stand directly in front of him. She was wearing her usual miniskirt-and-t-shirt combo (the black tee sporting what DiNozzo assumed was the 'artwork' off of one of the albums she liked to listen to), with a pair of knee-high neon green socks, printed with tiny skulls and crossbones, and a pair of platform mary-janes. Her lab coat was nowhere to be seen. "How'd you know it was me?"

Tony grinned at her, "You've only done the exact same thing, every year, for my birthday, Abby. You're getting predictable."

Abby smirked, and it set off alarm-bells inside Tony's mind. "Well, then, how about this one: Vance let us out early. Come on, I'm taking you to lunch."

Tony allowed her to pull him to his feet, but looked over his shoulder to see that the director was standing at the rail, staring down at the bull pen. Tony shot a questioning look his direction, and was rewarded with a combined nod and vague shooing motion that confirmed Abby's claim. Tony grinned and quickly gathered his things before following Abby out to the parking lot. He attempted to lead them towards his own car, but Abby simply shook her head. "No way, mister! We'll come back for your car later."

"So where are we going?" Tony asked, sliding into the passenger seat of her vintage hot rod.

Abby just smiled at him and reached up to untie the black silk scarf she was wearing in lieu of a collar. "It's a surprise," she replied, and motioned for Tony to lean closer.

Humoring her, he let the goth tie the scarf around his head. "You know I'm not that big on surprises, Abs."

"I know," she said, finishing tying the blindfold in a complicated knot. "But, trust me, you'll like this one."

The trip itself didn't take as long as Tony had assumed it would, but even so, he'd managed to get completely direction-turned – a side-effect of the blindfold. Once the car pulled to a stop, he reached up to untie it, only to have his hands smacked. "Not yet," Abby chastised. He heard her get out of the car and clomp around to his side. "Watch your head," she warned, helping him get to his feet.

"How can I when you've got me wearing this?" Tony retorted.

She ignored the comment and shut the car door before taking Tony's hand. "The sidewalk is perfectly flat, but there'll be a few stairs coming up." Tony couldn't help but wonder where they were – none of the restaurants he knew of had a configuration quite like what Abby had described. On reaching the stairs, Abby let him know there were six, and his brain noticed a few things: Firstly, there was the faint smell of barbecue on the air, but it was distant, and likely just someone a few blocks away taking advantage of the gorgeous day. Secondly, there was a near-total absence of people noise; there was the sound of a car or pickup a few hundred yards away, but nothing closer than that. Thirdly, he could smell fresh paint and sawdust and the distinctive odor of new concrete.

By the time he finished climbing the short flight of stairs, he was more confused than ever. He could vaguely hear someone – it sounded suspiciously like his cousin, Gema – say, "He's here!" through some sort of barrier. _Likely a door._ A metallic click and a faint rush of air confirmed the thought and Abby lead him forward. He tripped a little on the doorjamb, but was too wrapped up with what might be going on to notice. He heard the door click shut behind them, and then Abby was untying the blindfold. As it fell away, he saw a crowd of people, most of which shouted, "Happy birthday, Tony!" as the scarf fell away.

Everyone important to him was there, even though he didn't quite know where 'there' was. Ducky and Palmer, wearing silly paper party hats, stood next to a long table mounded with snacks that sat under a large window, topped with stylized 'sun rays' of stained glass in teal and red; next was Gibbs, who held out an unopened bottle of beer; Ziva sported a cardboard tiara done up in pink glitter and grinned at him from between Gibbs and Tim; McGee was almost hidden by Senior, and both were wearing more paper party hats, something which caused a tiny twitch of amusement deep within Tony's mind; next to Tim was Uncle Vinnie, who had one arm over Aunt Fran's shoulder, and Gema rounded out the bunch.

"Wow," Tony managed to choke out, the word nearly unintelligible through his own smile. Abby snuck up behind him and managed to snap another conical hat onto his head. The glimpse he'd gotten of it showed it to be dark blue with yellow letters that read _birthday boy_ in a childlike scrawl. Tony stepped forwards and took the offered beer from Gibbs. "Thanks guys – I wasn't really expecting anything."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet!" Abby exclaimed. It had been universally agreed on that she'd be the 'ringleader' for the day's activities. "First things first," she grasped his shoulders and maneuvered him through the crowd before pushing him into a suspiciously-familiar leather recliner. "Presents!"

"Wait a second here," Tony tried to get her attention, but she'd already ducked though the people to another, smaller, table near the one containing chips and finger-sandwiches. His eyes moved from the people he was with to the room itself. It was a good-sized living room, with golden wood floors, a medium-sized sandstone fireplace, and the walls were painted a tasteful cream color that went well with the teal and red panes of glass decorating the edges of the windows. But all that didn't hold his attention for more than a microsecond – what had captured his attention was the wooden entertainment center standing next to the fireplace. It, like the recliner and sofa, was _extremely _familiar. "What's all my stuff doing here?"

"That'll come in a minute!" Abby said, her voice excited. She elbowed her way back through the crowd and plopped gracefully onto the floor at Tony's feet – considering her arms were mounded with gaily-wrapped boxes, Tony couldn't help but be impressed. "Gema, you got the camera?"

"Yep," Gema chirped, holding up the object in question.

Abby picked the smallest of the packages off the top of the stack and handed it to him. "This one's from Jimmy."

Even before unwrapping it, Tony smiled over at his friend. "Thanks. You didn't have to."

"I know," Jimmy replied. "I wanted to, though."

The shape was enough to tell Tony that it was a DVD, but he eagerly tore off the paper to see which one. "_Un Chien Andalou_," Tony reverently read the title. "How did you find this? I've looked for _years_!"

Jimmy just shrugged. "Just happened across it a couple of weeks ago and remembered you telling me how much trouble you'd been having finding a copy." He didn't mention that it had taken him nearly three years of systematic searching himself to locate the DVD.

Tony sprang to his feet and gave Palmer a hug that would have given one of Abby's best a run for it's money. "It's great! Thank you!"

"What is it?" Tim had to ask. He'd never heard of it before.

"It's the _weirdest_ movie ever," Tony gleefully explained. "1929 silent film, and only sixteen minutes long, but they've yet to make something weirder!" He flopped back onto the recliner. "We'll watch it later."

Abby snagged the DVD box before Tony could get too distracted and sat it on the glass-topped coffee table. "Next, we've got Ziva's present," she said, replacing the DVD with a new gift.

Instead of wrapping paper, Ziva's was buried in tissue within a small metallic-purple bag. It didn't stop Tony from making as much of a mess as possible by pulling out the loose sheets on top and flinging them as far as they would fly. Everyone who noticed smirked at the nostalgic little smile on Senior's face that indicated this was behavior left over from childhood. Eventually, the tissue paper ran dry and Tony came up with a small black box, obviously from a jewelry store. He cracked it open, half-expecting to find a watch, but was pleasantly surprised to find a pair of gold-and-ruby cufflinks and matching tie pin. They weren't gaudy – in fact, they were quite tasteful – and Tony simply took a moment to admire them.

"You were complaining that your best cufflinks had broken," Ziva explained. "I hope these suit you as replacements."

Considering his 'best' pair had been little more than gold-plated copper and glass, and he _knew_ the Israeli disdained 'fake' jewelry, they more than suited Tony. "Thanks, Zee – they're perfect."

Abby allowed him another moment to admire them before whisking them away and replacing them with a card. The envelope stated that it was from Aunt Fran and Uncle Vinnie. He opened it and found a card surrounding two photos – one was of an unfamiliar refrigerator, packed nearly to overflowing with the distinctive blue-and-green paper bundles from Vincenzo's butcher shop, and the second revealed an equally-unfamiliar deluxe gas barbecue grill on a brick patio with a large, red bow sitting on it. If it hadn't crossed his mind already, Tony was pretty sure what one of his presents was going to be.

Ducky's gift was a vintage movie-poster for the 1931 release of _Dracula_, autographed by the director, Tod Browning, as well as Bela Lugosi, Helen Chandler, and David Manners. _Either he had this floating around in storage,_ Tony thought, _or he shelled out more money in one click of a mouse button than he makes in a year at NCIS! The real issue is that either one is likely with Ducky._ It took nearly fifteen minutes for Abby to manage to redirect Tony's attention to the remaining presents.

Gema's present was, by far, the largest box. Even before Tony opened it, he knew it would be one of her homemade quilts – and it was, a checkerboard of jeweltone greens and blues and reds, backed with a microfiber suede that felt like clouds. He'd always considered it ironic that Gema's favored hobby so closely matched her talents, but knew better than to voice the opinion. He didn't want hit, particularly not on his birthday.

"Tim's present's next," Abby said with her usual gusto.

It was smaller, but heavier, than the quilt had been. Wrapping paper flew and revealed a simple cardboard box containing a stack of papers that had obviously been through a typewriter. The front page had two lines of text, neatly centered. _Dionigi_ and just below it, _A Novel By Thom E. Gemcity_. A faint blush crept out from underneath Tony's collar. He cleared his throat and leveled an 'explain now or else' glare at Tim. "Where did you find it?" he demanded.

It was Senior who answered, "Don't be like that, Junior – Tim here simply asked me what _my_ middle name was."

Tim actually managed to chuckle a little. "Yeah, and since he's a senior, and you're a junior, it wasn't that hard to figure out. I thought you deserved to read it first, though. Especially since you weren't all that happy with Tommy in Deep Six. This way, if you don't like a particular detail, I can change it before we send it to my publisher." When Tony's glare failed to fade, Tim continued. "It's not got anything to do with Deep Six – you were the inspiration, sure, but this isn't another action/adventure. I was hoping you'd be able to let me know what I got wrong…"

Tony decided to let Tim off the hook and smiled. "That mean I get to have an anagram on the cover, too?"

Tim shrugged. "That's more up to the publisher, but you've already got a spot in the dedication," he said, moving over next to Tony and flipping the top sheet aside.

_For Tony, the best partner and friend a guy could ask for._

Abby allowed him to stare at it for a few minutes, but when her inner radar dinged that he was getting too choked up, she stepped in and replaced Tim's unpublished novel with a large, shallow box from her. It contained a selection of ties – ten, all told – one in each color of the rainbow, with the remaining four in black; one was solid, one was striped with off-white, one was threaded through with gold, and the last was true Abby-style; it sported a tiny print of bat-outlines and skeletons in white.

The last present in Abby's lap was another card. The handwriting was enough to tell him it was from Gibbs. He opened the envelope to find that there actually wasn't a card, just another photograph like the ones that had come from Vinnie and Fran. In this instance, it showed a study he'd not seen before, with dark green walls, more golden hardwood flooring, and extensive built-in book shelves (which, on closer inspection, housed the entirety of Tony's book collection, interspersed with his knickknacks and framed photos of his friends and family), but the shelves weren't what caught his attention. No, the center of the photo contained Gibbs' latest project – the very same project Tony had watched him painstakingly work on for the last couple of months. Based on designs from the late 1800s, it was a roll-top desk, complete with pigeonholes, a couple of drawers, and access-holes for the power cords for his cell phone and laptop.

What really floored Tony about the gift was that he'd asked – back when Gibbs had first started the project – who it was for. Gibbs had replied, somewhat vaguely, that it was going to be a birthday present for a 'family member'; Tony had assumed he'd meant Jackson. Unable to say anything, he merely looked at his boss. The man just returned his gaze, his trademark half-smile in place. He knew they'd talk later, so Tony simply thanked him and moved his eyes to his father.

Senior stepped up and handed Tony a three-ring binder. Since he hadn't been carrying it when Tony had arrived, he wondered for a moment where it had come from. He opened it, unsure of what he was expecting, but what he found hadn't been anywhere on the list.

He was, apparently, the CEO for January Estates.

A keyring was taped to the inside cover of the binder, but he'd sort-of been expecting that. "What?" he said, looking up at his dad.

"It's all set up to run without you – I know your work keeps you too busy to actually run things," Senior explained. "The acting property manager is a man by the name of Keith Arrows. I'll introduce you later, if you like. He's the one actually running things."

"Get to the best parts!" Abby demanded.

Senior patted her between her pony tails, behind the party hat she wore. "I am, just give me a moment, Abs." He returned his attention to his son. "The complex holds one hundred units, most of which are already leased. Your only responsibility on this is to simply enjoy it, son. If anything comes up that Keith can't handle, just call me – or, better yet, come over." A sinking suspicion wrapped around Tony's gut. "I'm in unit one, just across from the guardhouse – speaking of which, your old doorman, Tom, has graciously agreed to continue on as the day-shift guard for the main entrance." Yeah, that suspicion was fully justified. Tony wasn't precisely sure just where 'unit one' was in relation to the room in which he now sat, but his mind couldn't help but instantaneously replay all of the horror-stories he'd ever been told about 'living with the folks'. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because his dad laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry – your unit is diagonally across the complex from mine. I just thought this would help us stay in touch. I remember what you said back at the Adams House, about how when you were a kid, you never knew where I was or what I was doing." Senior increased his grip a little, almost as though he were trying to hug Tony with just his hand. "It's not like it will be a great effort on your part, Junior," he continued. "Not with how often I'm away on one trip or another."

Tony did have to concede that his father had a point – and it wasn't like he didn't appreciate what his father had done, he just wished he'd been asked about it, first. He didn't get the chance to voice any of his thoughts, though, because Abby was about to explode in her seat. "That's still not the best part, Mr. D!" Deciding that Senior was _never_ going to come to the point, Abby bounced to her feet and tugged Tony along for the ride. She pulled him through a break between Jimmy and Ziva, over to the large picture-window and pointed across the drive. "I'm moving in there!" She shifted so that she was pointing to the unit next to it. "When her lease runs out at the end of August, Ziva's moving in there!" Her arm swung around to point off to the right. "And Timmy lives there! Ducky liked his townhouse too much to move, and Jimmy wants to stay with his mom, at least until he's done with medical school, but he said he wouldn't mind moving here afterwards, and I don't think there's a force on earth that would get Gibbs to move, but other than that, we're all going to be together! We can carpool to work and look after each others' places on vacations and hang out together on the weekends without having to do more than walk over! It's gonna be fantastic!"

By the time Abby finished her tirade, Tony was chuckling. Despite the fact that he would have rather been given the option to say no, he was starting to warm up to the idea. "Okay, okay," he managed. "I'll give it a shot."

With that, Abby flung herself at Tony and gave him a hug that very nearly broke a couple of ribs.

"How about we see how that grill works?" Gibbs said, managing to divert attention from Tony.

Over the course of the rest of the afternoon, Tony discovered that everyone – even the absent Vance – had been involved in the planning and execution of his birthday present. He also received further details on how his dad had set up January Estates; it was designed cunningly enough that Tony could have as much or as little involvement in its running as he wanted. Furthermore, he discovered that Abby's, Ziva's, and Tim's leases were different from the ones for the rest of the residents: Their rent was simply one ninety-ninth of the property taxes, divided out by twelve, and was cheaper, in each case, than the rent they'd been paying on their previous apartments. The leases also weren't for a specified time-frame, simply 'the duration of residency, as desired by tenant'. He further discovered that his dad was using the standard lease for his own condo – and Tony couldn't talk him out of it. Tony's own unit was listed in the paperwork as the 'owner's residence' and as such was the one unit excluded from the various calculations which determined the others' rent.

Tony also learned the answer to his earlier curiosity about Ducky's present. His mother's sister, his Aunt Gloria, had actually dated David Manners, who had played Jonathan Harker in the film, for a short while in the early '40s. Ducky had found the poster in a trunk in the attic when he'd moved out of the mansion shared with his mother. Even explaining that a similar poster – in nearly-identical mint-condition, but not signed at all – had sold at auction for over three hundred thousand dollars couldn't get the doctor to accept it back. He simply waved the suggestion aside. "My dear Anthony," he said, "it was merely a bit of junk collecting dust when I found it. I know you'll treasure it, however, so it is yours to keep." Knowing that further arguing wouldn't do any good, Tony accepted him at his word, but made a mental note to have a full-size color reproduction made for display – the actual poster was going into a safety deposit box and insured six ways from Sunday!

Eventually, the party wound down, and people began to leave. When all who remained was Abby, they started cleaning up. When all the trash was bagged up, Abby lead the way to the curb-can in an outdoor alcove off the kitchen. On their way back, Abby came to a dead stop, causing Tony to run into her. "What's up, Abs?" he asked.

She turned, and in the fading light of a perfect sunset, Tony saw a worried look on her face. "Just…" she said, then chewed on her lip.

"What, Abby?"

"What am I supposed to do to top this for your fortieth next summer?"

Tony blinked at her for a moment, then laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I wouldn't even try, Abs," he said, leading them back inside.

* * *

And that hinky window back on Elba? It was never remarked upon, not during the closing of the case and not during the trial some months later. Certainly, the people who'd noticed its oddness thought on it from time to time, but nary a word was breathed until many years after the fact, when rumors of what had happened melted into local urban legend, and even then, it took nearly a decade for the story to spread beyond Italy. By then, it had grown so far from its humble origins that it was a different tale altogether, and even unrecognizable to the people involved in its creation.

* * *

"_When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you  
without flinching – they are your family. " ― Jim Butcher_

_Finite Incantatem _

* * *

**A/N2:** I've no idea if there is such a thing as the "Anacostia Zoning Comission", but I was too jazzed to take the time to research it – if there isn't, or if my portrayal of their role is not accurate, please consider it poetic license on my part.

My math for Tony's age is based off of the season one episode where Kate pegs Tony at 32, combined with the later episode where we learn that Gibbs is a Virgo, Ziva is a Scorpio, and Tony's a Cancer. I don't recall which episode Kate guessed Tony's age, but the details on what sign he is comes from _Blowback_ (4.14). So, he was born sometime between June 21 and July 22, 1972. Michael Weatherly's birthday is July 8, and though I've seen that quite a lot for Tony throughout the fandom, I wanted to be different (I kicked around the idea of giving him my birthday – July 1 – but decided not to be that egotistical). I picked the 20th mainly because I've (and you're welcome to tease me if you like) actually studied Astrology, and Tony's character is very much a Cancer with Leo overtones – putting him on the 20th places him within the Cancer-Leo cusp, so his personality actually makes sense (if you actually know what I'm talking about, you deserve virtual cake). If any of this is confusing, you're welcome to disregard it!

Did the presents make sense? I know some might find Ziva's a little too much like something a lover would purchase, but I didn't want to have her give him a weapon, and the only other things I could think of were definitely too intimate for a gift from a friend – particularly since I didn't want gag-gifts.

And _Un Chien Andalou_? Yeah – _**FREAKIEST MOVIE EVER**__._ I saw it at a friend's place about ten years ago. Lemme tell you, it may only be sixteen minutes long, but it _will_ stick with you for-freaking-_ever_. Though it ain't rated, I definitely would _not_ advise allowing small children to watch it.

And yes – I'm pushing credibility with Ducky's gift, but if you can't do that in fanfiction, then where can you?

I hope everyone has enjoyed this - I know I sure did!


End file.
